


the bright way round

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Introspection, M/M, Medium Burn, Money, No Beta, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Raihan the Sugar Daddy in Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After Leon's defeat, Raihan feels lost and adrift without his rival, having to reconsider his goals and his future. Luckily, Kabu is around to take him on an emotional detour he doesn't expect.--Wherein Raihan is kind of into his hot old guy coworker, and learns to chill out.
Relationships: Kabu/Kibana | Raihan
Comments: 179
Kudos: 829





	1. breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me.

There’s a lot to do behind-the-scenes when someone becomes the new Champion: paperwork, administrative shuffling, phone calls upon phone calls. Interviews and press releases. Touring and conferences. Things will slow to a crawl for a while, and the number of challengers will take a dip for most gyms. It means downtime, space to twiddle thumbs.

Raihan hangs around in the stadium after the last fight, the one that changes everything. He catches Leon in the aftermath, once the new Champion gets hauled away by a barrage of fans and press, all wanting the scoop on the new face of Galar; little Hop is hot on her heels, excited for his friend and would-be rival. Leon sneaks away, heading calmly for the locker room.

“Bit bummed it weren’t me,” Raihan says lightly, keeping pace with Leon as they walk down the empty hall. Leon doesn’t look as down about it as Raihan imagines he would feel, if it were him that lost.

Not that it was going to be him – and it isn’t ever going to be, now.

Leon isn’t Champion anymore, and for Raihan, beating Leon was almost as important as becoming Champion was. He isn’t ready for deep thinking he’s going to need to do about this, not after everything that has happened with the chairman and the Darkest Day. Taking failure well was always something Raihan has been good at, but this is a whole different game; it’s a dream that’s been stopped, a desire sent tumbling off a cliff. It’s going to take some getting used to and Raihan is a hard man to sway from his chosen path. It’s why he likes dragons so much, because he and they work the same.

“Sorry…” Leon grins at him. A real one, untouched by defeat. “We can still battle sometime, if you want.”

 _How are you doing this_? He thinks. He might even be envious, though that isn’t new when it comes to Leon. _I’d be a wreck_.

If it were Raihan, he would lose graciously…then hide away to lick all the wounds on his pride when the eyes were off him, for days and days.

He says as much, and Leon laughs.

“This was coming sooner or later,” he says, shrugging. He isn’t wearing the cape, has it tucked over one arm like it’s some ordinary towel and not the key part of his image as Champion for years. Raihan wonders if it’s going to the back of his closet for good, after this. “No one’s Champion forever. Not even me.”

“Figured your go of it would’ve lasted longer than that, though.”

 _Easy, you_ , he admonishes himself, chewing the inside of his cheek. _Don’t be bitter about it, if he’s not gonna be_.

“Now don’t count me out, yet!” Leon says, opening the door. Everyone is out in the stadium taking part in the festivities and so the locker room is empty but for their voices. It’s almost too much, hearing this conversation so clearly, so loudly – talking about the end, as though Raihan weren’t hinging more of himself on this one-sided rivalry than he’d thought. He hadn’t realized it until he was watching Leon start to lose out there, slowly but surely, to the country kid who came out of nowhere, that no one expected. Raihan getting beaten was one thing but seeing the same happen to his rival was a different beast.

Leon slings his cape over the bench before turning to him. “Whatever life after Championship looks like – don’t think I won’t make it every bit as good as I did under a title. I’m not rolling over yet, and neither should you.”

He claps his hand down on Raihan’s shoulder, undeterred by height difference. He smiles, big and beaming, and Raihan calms down enough to say, “Counting on it, then.”

*

They part ways after Raihan takes one of his cursory selfies: both of them standing side-by-side in front of the mirror, giving the camera a thumbs up. Raihan captions it with something mature to say about the end of an era, congrats to the new Champion, and something motivational to Leon himself; he tags the relevant parties, bloats the post with hashtags, and promptly forgets about it as soon as his Rotom phone zips back into his pocket.

Later, his publicist and gym manager text him to let him know he’s got some time off – all the leaders do, for a couple of weeks. Even Sebastian, Camilla, and Aria have been let off the hook for training so there’s not much for him to do during the down time; “ _Think of it as a vacation_ ,” they say, even though he’s not had a vacation in a long time. “ _The gyms will be swarming after this._ ”

New Champion – and a kid, at that – so everyone’s going to want their shot. Raihan knows the drill.

The next morning, he bumps into Kabu getting breakfast at a café near the stadium, sitting alone at a table out on the patio. Raihan nearly doesn’t notice him because he’s not wearing his usual clothes. Instead, a dated red polo shirt clings to his torso, paired with nondescript black jogging shorts – plain, and unbranded. A far cry from his league-endorsed, premium quality, fire-protected Leader gear. Raihan’s shocked to see his bare arms, compression shirt nowhere to be seen. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone wears their regular clothes to work; Raihan’s sweatshirt is custom designed and costs as much as an entire boutique’s catalogue – how could he _not_?

“Wait one sec,” Raihan says, calling his Rotom phone out and sidling up to the man. He makes sure to crouch a little and right on the money, his phone chirps and snaps a selfie. “Amazing.”

Kabu barely reacts to any of it, and sips from his coffee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in your civvies before,” Raihan says, explaining anyway. He likes Kabu – for an old guy, he’s got more zeal and drive than most trainers half his age – and takes the chance to talk to him whenever he can. “Don’t tell me you’re retiring.”

“Never,” Kabu says. He reaches down and pulls out the chair next to him, and Raihan takes the invitation to sit.

He makes eye contact with one of the servers inside, who comes out with a glowing expression on her face. They do the fan thing, where he scrawls his autograph on a napkin and snaps a picture with her for her page, and then she’s taking his order and hurrying off to the kitchen. He hopes she tagged him in the post.

“Motostoke’s gym is closed too, right?”

Kabu nods, dabbing his napkin on his mouth and taking another sip. He’d ordered a standard breakfast plate – with none of the trimmings that make breakfast even worth it – and had finished about half of it before Raihan came by. His coffee is black; no cream, no sugar, no fun. Raihan kind of wants to wiggle a sugar packet in front of his face and tell him to live a little.

“I’m going back to Motostoke soon, regardless,” Kabu says. “No sense dallying.”

“Come on,” Raihan grins. “Not every day you’re in Hammerlocke. Enjoy the sights some more!”

“I’ve been here many times.”

“All business, I bet.”

“Yes?”

“So unwind some. Live a little.”

Kabu raises one of those severe eyebrows of his. “When’s the last time _you_ ‘unwound’?”

He’s got Raihan there. It takes a certain type of person to be a good gym leader – usually, the type that never knows how to relax even if their life depends on it. Raihan is no different: it takes a lot of work to be a leader, to maintain a position that many people spend their whole lives chasing without getting to taste it. The glory doesn’t come without the legwork; it’s easy to burn out if one isn’t cut out for it, if one isn’t willing to make sacrifices. It can be a lonely road for the wrong person, and Raihan’s heard his share of horror stories – marriages that fall apart, parents that barely know their kids. Leadership isn’t for the faint of heart.

Still, as Raihan takes in the old guy’s plain coffee and unexciting breakfast choices, he can’t help but renege on all that just a little bit.

“When’s the last time I unwound?” he repeats the question, pretends to think about it. “Well then…how about now?”

The server comes out with his order and places it delicately on the table – a Dynamo Hammerlocke Breakfast Special. His plate is double the size of Kabu’s, and he feels himself grin at the look of astonishment on Kabu’s face.

The final touch is the large iced coffee with milk in a tall cup, pierced with a boldly-coloured straw.

“This certainly explains your size…” Kabu murmurs. “It would seem the dragon tamer even eats like one.”

Raihan drizzles some syrup on his pancakes, says, “Never start my day with a boring breakfast. Might be bad luck or something.”

Kabu chuckles, picking up his fork again and gets back finishing up his eggs as Raihan checks his texts before getting back to his food. They don’t say anything for a while, and Raihan can admit that it’s nice. He’s a chatty guy, always around chatty people; Kabu’s quietness is a different vibe. Maybe it’s because they’re in the aftermath of the Darkest Day fiasco, or maybe it’s because Raihan’s a little lost at sea without Leon as a goalpost now, but he finds himself thinking that he needs a little peace and quiet more than anything else. A chance to breathe without feeling like he’s going to start setting things on fire. He’s a bit tapped out on excitement these days, his insides are coiled too tight for it.

He takes out his phone again, answering three more texts and flips through a couple of apps. Raihan’s grateful for technology, because if he had to be alone with his own thoughts all the time he’s sure he’d go off the deep end.

They’re both nearly done their meals when Kabu asks, “Now that Leon is unseated, what do you intend to do?”

It’s a bold question. The whole world knows that taking the championship from Leon was Raihan’s goal – he’s certainly never been secretive about it – but somehow it feels a little personal to have it spoken of so candidly by a fellow gym leader, and one that he barely knows at that.

Raihan taps his thumb against his cup, watching the condensation jerk downward on the plastic.

“I don’t know.”

He couldn’t admit it to Leon in the locker room, but he can to Kabu. Kabu doesn’t know him well enough to appreciate just how heavily the words come out, how the drag of them leaving his mouth leaves a bitter sting behind.

Kabu says nothing for a long moment. He simply watches Raihan’s face in that way older people often do when they look at the young, where they live through their own long lives in a flash and bring up all that wisdom and experience to the tips of their tongues. Raihan waits for it, and sure enough, Kabu eventually speaks again.

“You haven’t come this far because of Leon,” he says. “It isn’t too late to shape yourself around another goal.”

Raihan shuffles the crust of his toast around on his plate with this fork.

“Don’t know about that one, Mr. Kabu,” he mutters. “Everything’s been _Leon-shaped_ for so long I’m not so sure I can bend it back.”

Raihan has always prided himself on his clarity of vision. He never had a problem admitting that Leon took center stage when it came to his goals, just as he never had a problem copping to his own shortcomings when it came to meeting said goals. And now, he could admit that without the shape of Leon’s back on the horizon, Raihan doesn’t quite know what it is he needs to chase in order to keep going forward.

He’s not sure he can ever beat the new kid, and even if he does – he’s not sure it would matter as much if it weren’t Leon, anyway. Being Champion now wouldn’t be the same.

Kabu shakes his head – just a little bit. He isn’t an excessive man, this one.

“You’re young,” he says. “You’ll pick yourself back up in no time.”

“You’re not _that_ old, y’know,” Raihan murmurs. He feels the urge to pull out his phone again and snap a picture of that small, nostalgic smile on Kabu’s face. “You’ve still got all your hair and everything. Save the sagely wisdom for when you’re using a walker, and maybe I’ll listen.”

“Ha!”

Kabu reaches down into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, and Raihan laughs when he sees the man still uses real cash.

“Don’t bother,” says Raihan. “I paid for it earlier.”

“Hm?”

He taps his Rotom, which chirps giddily. “Pay-by-app. It’s on me.”

Kabu sighs. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s all good.”

“If anything, I should have paid for yours,” Kabu mutters, looking down into his wallet. “Young man like you shouldn’t be buying an old man’s breakfast.”

“Who says?” Raihan laughs. “I’ll buy breakfast for whoever I want.”

He’s been accused of being arrogant before, and he knows he can’t contest it – especially not against the annoyed look Kabu sends his way. The sight of it makes satisfaction bubble up inside him, and he takes a cheeky sip from his drink. Unrepentant, always.

“Well,” Kabu puts his wallet away and starts to stand. “Thank you then, for the breakfast. I will pay it forward next time.”

“You can try, for sure,” Raihan stands too, and they make their way out of the restaurant. He waves goodbye to the server and keeps his stride short to keep pace with Kabu, who’s taking it easy for once, not lightly jogging like he usually does. He thinks that Kabu, more than most, seems out of place when not in a gym. Too much like the unremarkable civilian that he _isn’t._

They walk down the street toward the stadium, the place that always calls people like them back, eventually.

“When’re you leaving Hammerlocke, you think?” Raihan asks.

“In a day or two.” Says Kabu. He stares straight ahead as he walks, his hands in his pockets, while Raihan restlessly toys with his phone. Stealthily, he angles his camera and snaps another picture – downward angle, capturing the top of Kabu’s salt and pepper head and sturdy looking shoulders. The faint sheen of sweat on the back of his neck from Hammerlocke’s hot summer morning. Kabu doesn’t react at all; either the man is too distracted by walking, or he’s already learned to tune out Raihan’s compulsive picture-taking.

“We should hang again before you go,” says Raihan, letting the phone float around them both this time instead of putting it back in his pocket. Maybe he’ll grab a few more selfies of the two of them and post them later. Has he had any on his page of him and Kabu, apart from the group shots? Probably not, now that he thinks about it.

“Sure.”

They come to a stop in the lobby – Kabu needs to go to one of the guest offices reserved for gym leaders from other cities to handle some paperwork, and Raihan’s in the mood to blow off some energy. He figures he’d get a spot of training in, even though he’s technically on vacation. Not that it matters, no one’s going to tell him that he can’t use his own gym.

But they’re done with each other for the day, and Raihan bites at the back of his own lip.

“Good talk,” he says, looking down at Kabu’s face. Stern – always – yet relaxed today. “I had fun.”

 _I’ll order for him next time_ , he thinks. _The good stuff._

Better coffee than what they serve at the café, that’s for sure, if he’s a stickler for plain black.

“As did I,” says Kabu. He even offers a small smile. “Goodbye for now.”

He turns and heads down the hall. All business. Uncomplicated.

At his back, Raihan says: “Be seeing ya.”


	2. fame

_“Omg? Motostoke’s best takes a lil downtime_?!”

#GalarLeague #Motostoke #Kabu #FireGym #Raihan

#Hammerlocke #HammerlockCafe #LeaderSquad

#GalarLeaders #TeamGalar #Breakfast #RnR

#GalarGuys #TrainersofGalargram #GuysofGalar

Raihan had posted the selfie he’d taken with Kabu at the café.

Checking it the next day, he realizes he had not tagged the man’s account onto the photo at all – not that it matters, because once he does a cursory search into Kabu’s internet presence it becomes clear that Kabu doesn’t actually _have_ one. There’s his official account on every major site, of course, mandated by the League marketing team, but there’s not a single post anywhere, no sign of even a social media intern running things behind the scenes. It’s completely baffling.

Still, Raihan knows his online manners and tags Kabu anyway, tapping the photo right on Kabu’s stiff, unsmiling face. He’s got his cup of coffee halfway up to his mouth, was in the middle of taking a sip from it when Raihan had crept in. Raihan himself takes up most of the frame, something that tends to happen whether he intends it or not – Rotom’s habit, always prioritizing its master over anyone else. Raihan makes a mental note to train it out of doing that for the future; the only good pictures he’s got of Kabu from yesterday are the ones Raihan snapped himself.

Last night, he had considered uploading one of those, instead – but that would have been presumptuous. Kabu was unaware for most of those.

Raihan makes his own breakfast today, quick and easy in his loft. The urge to go out is strong, but he needs to clear out the stuff in his fridge before it all goes bad and his cleaning lady gets on his case again. Freshly showered and in nothing but his shorts, Raihan lounges on his couch and looks out at the view through his floor-to-ceiling window, idly chewing his half-burnt sausage and watching the morning sun streaming across the rooftops of Hammerlocke’s commercial district. The TV’s on for background noise, but he pays it little attention.

On a normal week, he’d be getting ready for a morning training session at the gym, but with the closure – and a stern talking-to from the maintenance supervisor at the stadium for his drop-in yesterday – he finds himself facing a free day and no idea what to do with it. His publicist had told him to hang tight, because right now most of the media are too busy fawning over the new Champion to hit up any of the League members for anything for a while. Which means no appointments, no business to handle while he waits out the media frenzy.

He’s restless already and it hasn’t even been two days.

Rotom buzzes, screen flashing on an incoming call. That special ringtone he reserves just for his publicist blares like a siren, and Raihan scrambles to take the call by the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“Clear your calendar for tonight,” she says, as though she doesn’t personally curate his schedule from top to bottom nearly every single day.

“Are you finally taking me out on a date?” he turns down the volume on the TV. “Cool! Just remember that I’m a cheap drunk and even cheaper at conversation.”

“Stop that,” she huffs. “League welcome party for the new Champion, and it’s going to be black tie. Press will be there. You still have that suit I got you?”

He grimaces. “Um…somewhere.”

“So, no.”

“…no.”

She groans. “Figures.”

There’s a moment of silence where he can hear her shuffling her phone, tapping the screen with her fingers. He gives it half a minute, and sure enough a notification pings on his personal calendar.

“There’s no time to get something tailored on such short notice –” she is far more upset by this than Raihan is. “But we’ll just have to make do. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you with Anya down in the shopping district; I’d go myself, but something came up and I’m booked up until the party. Can you handle it?”

He grins. “You know I can handle anythi –”

“Great. Don’t be late.”

She hangs up, and Raihan sighs. He hates black tie events more than anything, because suits feel stiff and the people in them are always even stiffer. As a kid, he never imagined that life as a gym leader would be like this. He’d always figured his days would be filled with battling and training closely with his pokemon, living for the next big challenge. A long, steady drag of adrenaline and riding the high of victory, not being bogged down by administrative dry spells. 

Rotom chirps, and Raihan beckons it over to flip back to his Galargram page and watch the stream of comments on his post.

@MizzGraveRobbah _always knew mr kab was hidin some guns under his shirts_

He’s always glad that the commenters could say what Raihan is not allowed to – not unless he wants his publicist to rip him a new one – because he’s certainly noticed it too. He goes through his camera roll from yesterday again, thinks that it’s a real shame that Kabu wears those compression shirts all the time. He could stand to show himself off a little more often, because for an old guy he’s in very good trim. 

He hits ‘Like’ on @MizzGraveRobbah’s comment and nudges Rotom out of the way so he can stand and put his plate in the sink. There’s an empty schedule ahead of him for the first time in ages, with nothing to do until the evening; being spoiled for choice, he thinks, is daunting. Life is simpler when measured by battles. 

“What’s it gonna be today, you think?” he asks Rotom.

The phone whizzes past him toward his TV, where it connects and streams a live feed of Hammerlocke’s downtown: the arcade, several dozen coffee shops, boutiques, pizzerias. Choices upon choices, and Raihan feels his eyes glazing over.

Going to the stadium to train would have been his first choice. And his second, and his third.

“Am I boring?” he asks Rotom out of the blue.

The phone jerks back, and he swears it makes an awkward little squeak.

“Oh my god,” says Raihan. “I’m _boring_.”

*

@Peak-Achoo _u think raihan’s gonna face up against the new champ for round 2?_

@CrystalGOAT _Got beat once, why do it again tbh_

Without looking, Raihan knows there’s going to be a dozen burning e-mails in his inbox from his publicist; interview prep, mostly, and some advice about how to proceed. PR documents that no one ever reads. All the leaders will have them, but Raihan has always been the most vocal about seizing the championship and so all eyes, once drawn away from the new Champion, will then fall onto him: is he going to keep trying for it, with Leon out of the way? How does he feel about this new development?

Raihan taps the edge of his phone, to a rhythm he doesn’t know. Outside the coffee shop, foot traffic steadily increases to signal the incoming rush hour. 

He still wants it, he supposes. He wants it in the same way that he wants dessert with his next meal or his favourite song on when he’s working out. It’s a part of him – always will be – but it doesn’t _burn_ anymore, and it doesn’t push at him until he’s breathless with imagining it. The urgency disappeared when Leon handed it all over.

But that wouldn’t be an acceptable answer. The people wouldn’t get it – probably no one would.

So he’s going to keep it to himself. 

Raihan finishes his drink and stands, figuring it’s time to head over to the boutique appointment scheduled in his calendar – all caps, bolded and red. Priority one.

He throws a grin over his shoulder at the barista before stepping out the door. Like yesterday, the air is humid and hot – one of the hottest summers Hammerlocke has had in a long while. Raihan contemplates shucking his sweater to air himself out.

“Mr. Raihan! Mr. Raihan!”

A young kid comes bounding up to him, shaking like a leaf and clutching at Raihan’s League card like it’s the most precious thing on earth. He looks up at him with huge eyes, pink at the waterlines. Blushing on his cheeks. In the distance, Raihan hears a woman’s voice yelling in urgency, coming closer.

Hero worship screams from the boy’s every move.

“ _You’ve got this really nice smile, yeah? So use it – and I mean all the time. Every time you meet someone and_ especially _when you meet kids. They’ll eat it up, and it’s good for your image_.”

It’s no hardship to give people what they want. He’s naturally friendly and he loves people; his publicist always tells him that half the reason he’s ranked so high in the popularity poles is due to his charm. All the League bureaucracy is something he can’t get a handle on, but the meeting people part? He loves it almost as much as battling. 

Raihan beams and bends down so the kid can snap a picture, and he signs his name along with an inspirational message on the little plastic-protected card. The boy’s mother catches up, apologizes profusely for the interruption in his day – which Raihan waves off. He cracks a joke or two, making her smile, before patting the boy on the head.

“You shouldn’t run off from your mum,” he says, before winking at her in solidarity. “It makes her worry. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No sir.” He looks properly admonished, and the mother looks pleased.

“ _You’re most popular with the younger demographics,_ ” his publicist told him once over a power lunch. “ _Teens, especially, and people in the 20 – 30 range, too. We need to get your number up with the older folk._ ”

“ _Wait, are you telling me I’m not a hit with the PokeMums Association?_ ” 

Her eyes had narrowed. “ _How do you know about them?_ ”

“ _Um_.”

“ _Nevermind, I don’t want to know,_ ” she’d huffed and rubbed at her temples. “ _And no, you’re not. The housewife demographic favours Kabu…and Milo_.”

“… _Milo?!_ ”

“ _I don’t know either. Finish your omelet, we’ve got to get through these merchandizing reports_.”

The two of them take off, and Raihan waves heartily at the little boy who can’t seem to stop looking back at him, hand clutched tight in his mother’s grip.

“You’re very good at that.”

A familiar voice cuts through hum of the city, soft-spoken and raspy, words curving around a faint Hoenn accent. Raihan’s beaming PR grin softens a little on his face, and he turns around to the greet the old man with a gentler smile. He adores talking to fans, but he finds he enjoys talking to leaders and pro-trainers more, because he can’t ruin their day or shatter their dreams with a single mistake, with one bad mood or a moment of forgetfulness. The weight of mindfulness lifts, and Raihan breathes easy at the sight of Kabu’s raised brow.

“Thanks,” says Raihan, shoving his hands into his pockets. Rotom vibrates against his fingertips, sensing his urge to start taking pictures. “I’ve had practice.”

“You need practice to talk to people?” Kabu huffs; not quite a laugh, but verging close. “Being sociable seems to come naturally to you.”

“It does. But it’s different being a celebrity – you know what I’m talking about.”

“Hm,” Kabu nods. “I suppose so. But my star isn’t quite as high as yours.”

He means the stars on the League walk of fame, but Raihan tells himself that Kabu’s just being poetic.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Raihan says. “I remember you being pretty popular with the ladies when you were younger.”

“You remember that far back, do you?” Kabu looks amused.

When Raihan had been an up-and-coming trainer doing the League circuit for the first time, Kabu had already been established. His hair had still been black, and he had fewer lines on his face than he did now, but the man had been a seasoned trainer and League leader for many years before Raihan had challenged him. Back then, Raihan had been far too absorbed in his own affairs to really notice Kabu in particular from the lineup of obstacles on his way to the top – and too obsessed with Leon, as well – but he could recall that Kabu had a niche, dedicated fan following of his own. 

That fan following is probably still around, older as well, with families and young trainers of their own to dote on. Veteran fans for a veteran leader.

He thinks of a younger Kabu, awkwardly learning how to talk to people. Navigating the madness of fame and lasting as long as he has to stand before Raihan now, hands in his jogging shorts and looking the picture of serenity. What does it matter to Kabu that there’s a new Champion, when so many have carried the title since he’s been training? Kabu isn’t fussed about it, not like Raihan is.

Kabu isn’t treading water, restless and trying to find his path back to land.

Raihan wonders if there was ever a Leon in Kabu’s life.

“I’m not _that_ young,” Raihan eventually says. “I still remember getting my badge from you.”

Kabu chuckles. “You are very young, still.”

Raihan drags a fingernail down the side of his phone. He doesn’t pull it out to take a picture of Kabu’s expression, but he does keep his eyes on it. Commits it to memory.

Kabu’s in similar day-off clothes that he wore yesterday, and Raihan remembers the League party coming up.

“Are you going?” he asks, feeling hopeful.

Kabu nods, scratching at his chin. “Mandatory, isn’t it?”

It certainly is. It would be a PR nightmare for a Leader not to show up at a new Champion’s welcoming party. The industry is so heavily competitive that even getting sick on the night of it and having a legitimate excuse not to be there would be seen as animosity. Resentfulness. Being a poor sport.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit,” says Raihan, and he can’t quite stop himself from looking Kabu up and down. His eyes stop at his strong calves, imagining them in some freshly pressed socks, strapped up by fancy garters that no one but old men wear.

“I wore one to Leon’s induction party,” Kabu says.

_Of course he did, you dummy_ , Raihan thinks to himself. Not that he would have noticed, because he had spent the whole night getting tipsy off free champagne and watching the world orbit itself around Leon, dreaming of the day he would win the Championship from him. He hadn’t had the eyes or the attention for anyone else, any _thing_ else.

Now that those days are gone, Raihan’s mind is spinning at furious pace; _what’s next_? He thinks. _What’s next_?

“I have an appointment to get a suit from the boutique,” Raihan says, looking at the breadth of Kabu’s shoulders and imagining them fitted into a nice suit, and a bowtie nestled into the notch of his thick throat. “Wanna come with me?”

Kabu hums, looking down at his watch – and who wears a watch, anymore? – before looking back up and nodding.

“I don’t see why not.”

Raihan grins. One of his big ones, baring teeth. 


	3. suit

Anya is a short, severe woman with an accent he doesn’t recognize, and the moment Raihan and Kabu enter the boutique she already has four sets of suits slung over the crook of her arm ready for him to try on. There are no other patrons in the shop, and Raihan figures his publicist had booked the whole place just for him.

Sheepishly, Raihan gives Kabu a shrug. “Your PR team ride you like this?”

“I meet with mine about twice a year.”

“The unapproachable sort, are you?”

“No,” Kabu’s already walking away, toward a rack of blazers that would be frightfully expensive to someone not on a League leader’s salary. “Just the sort uninterested in celebrity.”

Kabu’s old school. One of those guys in it for the glory but not the fame, the thrill of victory but not the perks that come with it. Raihan can respect that, he supposes, but he’s been in the game for so long he doesn’t quite know who he’d be without the fame. He doesn’t want to think about a life that quiet, about a life where he’s not the center of someone’s attention.

“The first one, please,” says Anya, pointing to the suit at hanging at the end of her arm. “We haven’t taken your measurements since last time, and I need to make sure nothing has changed.”

“Sure, sure. I’m all yours.”

She keeps him sequestered in the changing rooms, bringing him suit after suit after suit. She tells him to come out and pose after each one, critically evaluating him for fit, silhouette, presence: “You are not to slouch in these,” she says, as she pinches his side. “Remember, a suit will demonstrate all the flaws with your posture and bearing, if you let it. You wear the suit, the suit should never wear you.”

“Does this have to be so intense?” he whines, trying to loosen the tie at his neck. “You’re making this sound like a battle, but not nearly as fun.”

“Quiet. Now, try this one.”

Raihan loves fashion, but this is too much. He begins to feel a little bad about inviting Kabu to come with him when he’s all but abandoned the man. After he finishes trying on the last set, he scans the boutique and finds Kabu intently staring at a mannequin posed in the window, his arms crossed, his hip cocked.

“Are we done?” he asks Anya, though he keeps his eyes on Kabu’s back; perfect posture, he finds himself noticing, and excellent poise. It’s a pity that Kabu seems to favour a dull wardrobe of uninspired athletic wear and outdated polo shirts.

“Yes,” she nods, looking through the ones they’d set aside as possibilities. “Which did you like best?”

“The sixth,” he murmurs, tilting his head. Thinking.

“A good choice.”

“Say,” he keeps his voice quiet and sidles up to her. “Do you have anything ready to go in his size?”

She gives Kabu a sweeping look. “He’s short,” she says. “Which is unfortunate…but his shoulders are a good shape. And what fine legs and rear…”

Raihan chuckles nervously. “Talking about him like a piece of meat, aren’t you?”

“A boutique is not so different from a butcher shop,” she says, as though it were a normal thing to be saying. “Bodies and meat both need to be evaluated, dressed, and displayed to the best of our abilities.”

“…Right.”

“I will make Mr. Kabu something worthy,” she says, spinning on her heel and taking off into the back room. “Ask him what he likes. I will handle the alterations.”

“Cool,” he nods, before adding: “Just bill me for it later.”

She stops. “He has his own League spending account –”

“Bill me.”

Raihan’s turning and heading toward the front of the store before she can manage a response. Truth be told, he’s not sure why he’s doing it, either; Kabu is more than capable of buying his own clothes, and for all Raihan knows he might already have a suit packed with him and ready to go for tonight. Leaders have a reputation for methodical, careful thinking – the kind of mindset and approach to life that gets them to the top – but Raihan knows that hotheadedness and tunnel vision can be his weak points. He’d offered to pay for the breakfast and the suit before his brain even caught up to why he wanted to in the first place.

Raihan is _still_ not sure why he wants to. All he knows is that it makes him feel good, and he’s always chased things that made him feel good: the best pokemon, high engagement with his social media, battling strong trainers.

“Your PR team is a force to be reckoned with,” says Kabu. He’s still looking at the mannequin, resting his chin on his fingers. “They are very intense.”

“A little, yeah,” Raihan says. “But I guess a lot can go wrong if they don’t do their jobs well.”

Kabu nods.

“What are you looking at, anyway?”

“This suit,” he gestures along the length of the mannequin, a head taller than Kabu himself, “costs more than the childhood home I grew up in.”

“Yeah?”

“And now I can afford it, and I would not be left destitute afterward.” Kabu chuckles and shakes his head. “What a life this is.”

“Reminiscing in a clothing store, huh?”

“At my age, you reminisce in all sorts of places,” Kabu’s eyes rove over Raihan’s form, stopping at his torso where his sweatshirt has been left unzipped. “Did you finish?”

“Sure did,” Raihan says. “Now I’m winded. This kind of thing’s tougher than a battle, sometimes.”

“Certainly.”

“Did you pack a suit with you when you came?”

Kabu shakes his head, and sighs. “I only received the message about the induction party this morning. I hadn’t expected a new Champion so soon when I came here.”

None of them did. Raihan thinks of Leon’s face after the fateful match, the cape draped over the back of a chair in the empty locker room, and wonders where his rival is right now; if he’s still holding it together and putting on a brave face, or he’s going to be human for once and allow himself to feel the heartbreak.

“Pick something from here then,” says Raihan.

“My tastes are not so expensive,” Kabu shakes his head. “I will something in another shop.”

“No way,” Raihan shoves his hands into his pockets. He nearly vibrates with restless energy. “Guy like you? You should be wearing the best of the best.”

“Like me?” Kabu raises a brow. “What is that?”

 _Nice shoulders_ , Raihan’s mind runs over Anya’s observations and finds them true. _Shapely legs. A good ass_.

“Industry vet,” he says, instead, “and well-respected. I think you can afford to show off once in a while.”

“I show off all the time,” Kabu frowns. “At the stadium, where it matters.”

“It matters here too,” Raihan argues. God, he’s starting to sound like his publicist. “Being at the top takes more than just strong pokemon. You’ve been in the game long enough to know this.”

That’s the thing with these old school types: they don’t want to admit how much the politics matter, how much image matters. They don’t want to think about how sometimes, you just can’t strongarm your way though to the finish line. They think passion and hard work comes out on top at the end of the day, and while Raihan gets how romantic that is, he knows that’s not the case. He didn’t lose every match he’s ever had with Leon because he lacked passion.

Raihan knows passion. It burns him up and makes him all but smoke at the mouth. And he still lost.

Kabu is frowning. Probably doesn’t like being lectured by a young, overgrown upstart.

 _Put me to the test, old man_ , Raihan thinks, his skin feeling hot. _I’m made of more than you think I am_.

He’s not sure where this sudden mood came from, like he wants to fight. Or maybe fuck.

Not training for a day or two has done a number on him already, he thinks.

Finally, Kabu speaks, and Raihan’s shoulders lose their tension: “You’re more astute than people give you credit for.”

“Heh, people say I’m dumb?”

“Not so much, no. But you’ve a reputation for arrogance, and being…”

“A hot head.”

“Yes.”

Raihan nudges Kabu’s shoulder with his elbow. “More your thing, I’d say.”

Kabu’s mouth quirks up in a moment of private humour. “Now, I believe I’ve calmed down in my middle age!”

“Heard you were a firecracker back when you were starting up.”

Raihan would’ve liked to see that. He finds himself wondering about it a lot, these days; “ _The ever-burning man of fire!_ ” is how the League brands him, but Raihan wants to know just how true that is and just how hot he burns.

Kabu starts to say something, but Raihan cuts in: “Pick a suit.”

“You’re being obstinate,” the man narrows his eyes. “ _And_ presumptuous.”

“Yep,” Raihan grins. “It’s on me again, so go wild. My latest endorsement contract’s got me bleedin’ cash.”

Kabu rears back in shock. “You will do no such thing.”

“I will.”

“Raihan.”

“I’m not changing my mind,” says Raihan, feeling the sound of his name in Kabu’s accent crawling pleasantly up his spine, “so you might as well just do it.”

“I will not.”

“Then I’ll pick for you,” Raihan’s grin grows wider, like it does when he’s in the middle of a really good battle – when a truly skilled opponent has gotten Duraludon’s health down to half in Gigantamax form, and Raihan feels himself reckoning with a rare moment of defeat, only to pull himself out of it at the last moment and grasp victory again. There’s no high quite like getting his way despite a tight a situation. “And you’re not the wasteful sort, I’d imagine. You’d wear it.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, Kabu looking affronted and Raihan meeting him with his most obnoxious smirk. He even tilts his head back, looking down his nose at the man, stretching out that already enormous difference in height between them. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s engaged in pissing contest like this, when the last time he felt the need to puff up his chest and try to impress someone was; with Leon, it was always about beating him in a battle. With Kabu, Raihan just wants…

He’s not sure. Attention, maybe, or acknowledgement. Something altogether different than what he seeks from other people, he knows that much.

“Truly arrogant,” mutters Kabu. “It’s little wonder you train dragon types.”

Dragons believe in their own might and their right to use it above all else. Raihan’s never seen it as a bad thing.

Nodding slowly, Raihan murmurs, “Anya told me to get you to pick your favourite. She’ll take care of the adjustments and stuff.”

Kabu clicks his tongue. “Already made arrangements, then? You enjoy sneaking up on people, it seems.”

Raihan eyes the ball of Kabu’s shoulder, and reaching down, Raihan clamps his palm over it, harder than he would if it were someone else, someone more delicate – Kabu, of course, doesn’t flinch. The muscle under his hand is solid and his fingers nearly curl around it, nearly squeeze just to feel _how_ solid. Raihan isn’t weak, but he gets the distinct impression that Kabu could flatten him with little effort, if he wanted.

“Hard to imagine anyone getting the jump on you,” he murmurs, and imagines shoving Kabu down onto the ground just to see how shock would colour his face.

“It’s been known to happen,” Kabu says. He doesn’t shake Raihan off, though he does glance pointedly down at the top of Raihan’s hand. “I don’t pretend to be superhuman.”

“I don’t think anyone’s gotten that impression of you!” Raihan says. At Kabu’s raised brow, he clarifies: “That you pretend, I mean.”

 _I think you’re good and honest about everything_ , he thinks, slowly letting his hand slide away before he ends up giving into impulse and copping a feel.

“Hm.”

Kabu wanders down another aisle. He keeps his hands to himself, doesn’t touch every little garment that catches his attention like most people do; when his hands reach for something, it’s to pull it completely off the rack, fully intent to try it out and see where it goes. All or nothing, all the time. Raihan watches him as he goes, fascinated.

The man eventually chooses two sets, both just a little bit larger than he is, and makes his way to the changing rooms where Anya awaits them with a critical eye. She zeroes in on his choices, says, “Very good, sir,” before taking one off his hands and leading him to an empty stall to try on the other. Kabu grumbles to himself as he goes, and Raihan can’t catch the words; the lyrical and soft language from Hoenn, probably. Raihan hopes he’s not being cursed out too much.

Raihan takes a seat and lounges on the rectangular couch in the center of the room, surrounded on all sides by mirrors attached to the stall doors.

 _Smug bastard_ , he thinks at his own reflection, seeing the satisfied look on his own face. _It’s a wonder he hasn’t knocked you out_.

He pulls out his phone and takes a shot of himself in the mirror, winking. He makes sure to get his good side, and to have the full length of his legs on display – he’s been told they’re one of his better features.

 _“Do the women go crazy for a sharp dressed man? Let me know in the comments!_ ”

#GalarLeague #Raihan #Vacay #Fashion #Men’sFashion

#Hammerlocke #LeaderSquad #Woudlratherbetraining

#GalarLeaders #TeamGalar #RnR #PartyPrep

#GalarGuys #TrainersofGalargram #GuysofGalar

Kabu comes out of the stall looking mildly uncomfortable, especially when Anya circles around him and pinches and pulls and prods. “This compliments your shape,” she says. “But the colouring is too harsh and bland. The grey one would suit you better than black.”

“If you say so,” says Kabu, sighing.

Raihan nearly pipes up that he thinks Kabu looks great, but he knows better than to get in the way of a master and her work. So he keeps silent, and gestures for Rotom to whizz around overhead and snap as many shots as it can before Kabu goes back into the stall with the grey suit in tow.

“When’s the last time you went and upgraded your wardrobe, anyway?” asks Raihan, pitching his voice so it would louder than the store music. Anya gives him a stern look for his volume, but he ignores her.

“…A few years.”

Laughing, Raihan checks his feed: 143 likes already, and a dozen comments in under five minutes. Not bad.

“Not before I was born, I hope.”

“It very well might be.”

True to Anya’s word, the grey suit looks much better – a dark shade, but not as harsh as the black was. Exceptionally high-quality wool from the finest bred Wooloos, from some remote mountain region that no one ever goes to but is apparently a mark of expensive taste. It’s a better fit, too; the length of the sleeves and legs would only need minor adjustments, but otherwise it fits him like a dream. Kabu hadn’t brought a tie with him to try, but Raihan swears that they are going to pick one for him before they leave the building today. He even knows which dress shirt he’s going to make the man wear with it, too.

“Yes, this is the one.” Anya strides up close and doesn’t even bother to pick at him. “You’ve a good eye, sir.”

“…Thank you.” Kabu can’t quite hide the pride in his voice, and Raihan nearly purrs at the sight of the faint flush on his cheeks.

He whistles, low and crass. It’s worth the dirty look from Anya for the amused rolling of Kabu’s eyes.

Quick and professional, Anya jots down some measurements in a little notebook. “I will have this ready for you by this evening,” she tells Kabu. Though her face hasn’t lost its sternness, her voice nearly shakes from elation. “And it will be perfect.”

“You look excited.” Raihan remarks, curious. She didn’t look nearly as into dressing him as she does Kabu.

“I adore older men,” she says simply. Kabu clears his throat and fidgets in embarrassment. “Now, I need to fetch some things from the back and prepare Raihan’s set as well. Mr. Kabu, please leave the suit on the couch when you are finished. I will have it delivered to your hotel.”

“Thank you, madam.”

She strides away, expensive heels clicking in her wake, leaving the two them alone in the over-bright changeroom.

Raihan stands, takes in the view like he’s starving. He wants to come closer and smell that expensive, finely pressed fabric all over Kabu’s earthy human scent.

Rotom snaps another picture, and finally Kabu tilts his head up to acknowledge it: “What do you do with all of your photographs?”

“What do you mean?”

“You take so many,” Kabu rubs his chin in thought, eyes tracking Rotom as it floats around overhead. “Surely you don’t use them all? Dozens of shots of the same subject, at slightly different angles?”

Raihan gestures, and Rotom drops down from the air and onto his hand. He walks over and comes to a stop right in front of Kabu, fiddling with the settings on the phone before bringing it up to snap a picture himself – Rotom’s a great help, but there’s a special satisfaction in being the one to push the button, to decide precisely what to capture. He holds the screen near to his own face, towering above Kabu as he always does; this time, unlike yesterday, Kabu is looking right at the lens. Not posing, exactly, but letting it happen. Curious, yet patient. Not a man that allows curiosity to get the better of him or make him buckle.

The sight of it gives Raihan pause, makes him run his tongue over his front teeth. Raihan adjusts his grip so that he can get a little more of his own front in the frame. And there it is: Kabu’s face, so serious, looking right up at him as he stands inches away from Raihan’s chest. Dressed so finely while Raihan’s in training gear and a sweatshirt.

 _This one’s not going online_ , he thinks. Certainly not.

He’s always taken a smug kind of pleasure in his height, though he does try not to let it on too much – especially around the young trainers that come around to Hammerlocke to challenge him. Early on in his career his publicist told him he’s too naturally intimidating, and that he should take care not to loom over people too much. A gym must be approachable, and it’s not good for his image if the kids get too scared to think they can take him.

Raihan gets it, and he heartily complies. But moments like these…

He grins, takes another shot. If only he could reach out, maybe put his hands back onto Kabu somewhere; his shoulder again, or the slope of solid muscle that connects to his neck. Try to budge him, and capture that, too, or nudge him even lower. But that would be uncouth or something, and Raihan isn’t rude.

Not _that_ rude, anyway.

“I keep them,” he says, in answer to Kabu’s question, “You never know.”

His hand falls away, taking the phone with it and coming to a rest at his thigh. His eyes roam over silver spots in Kabu’s hair as his mind tries to recall what he must have looked like when he was young, in the early days of his career. But he doesn’t get very far; all he knows it dark hair, and a vaguely younger face. No details he can remember beyond that. Those days were a fog, a kaleidoscope of burning, intense wants that drowned everything else out: Championship, defeating Leon. Getting to the top and looking down from heights greater than most could dream of. Nowadays, Raihan thinks of other things.

Kabu drags his dark eyes down from Raihan’s face – slowly, as though he has all the time in the world. They’re standing close enough that Raihan thinks he can feel the faint puffs of Kabu’s breath through his thin shirt.

Finally, Kabu reaches out and takes the two sides of Raihan’s sweatshirt in hand. He brings them together and slowly zips the whole thing up. The rasp of the zipper teeth crash thunder-loud to Raihan’s ears, and it takes an eternity for the whole thing to close; there’s a lot of Raihan to traverse, after all, and Kabu likes to set his own pace.

After an age, the zipper closes, Kabu’s knuckle coming to a rest at the bump of Raihan’s throat.

The man pulls away, says, “We’d best be leaving now.”

“Y-yeah.”

Kabu goes back into the stall to take off his brand-new suit, and Raihan swallows.


	4. gin and tonic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup i wrote this drunk and in one day, so please don't mind the mistakes aaaaahaahah

“You know what I think?” he asks Rotom. “I think I need to get laid.”

The phone chirps and whizzes off to the corner of the room and pretends to be really interested in the state of his cupboards.

Raihan and Kabu had parted ways after the boutique, because Kabu had a meeting to attend to with a colleague in town, and Raihan needed to be alone with his thoughts for a while. It had been a beeline back to his apartment, despite the ample hours he had left until the welcome party.

He rubs his hands down his face and falls back onto his couch. He’s sweating underneath his sweatshirt.

“No, I _know_ I need to get laid.”

Hooking up when you’re a gym leader is simultaneously very easy and very, very hard; people everywhere want a piece of you, in whatever way they can get it, so it’s not as though he doesn’t have options. But it can be dangerous, because the nature of celebrity is dangerous. He doesn’t need his publicist bombarding his phone with angry calls the next day because someone he’d hooked up with decided to post about it all over social media. Raihan honestly does envy people like Melony, who is happy married, and Nessa, who is publicly in a long-term relationship. Being single when the eyes of the world are on him and he just wants to get his rocks off once in a while is like walking blindfolded through a minefield full of angry Voltorbs.

Not that it explains why Kabu in particular has grabbed his attention so strongly. All he can say is that getting the man’s quiet, intense kind of attention on him feels good, and these days he _needs_ to feel good. The state of the Championship has left him bereft of much to feel good about.

He checks his page, as is his habit when he gets too deep into his own thoughts.

@DarqueNDangerous _the ladies so go crazy for a sharp dressed man. gents too ;P_

@XDXD6000 _omg I LOVE THAT BOUTIQUE are we going to get to see Raihan in a suit?!_

@LowerRoars _Suit! Suit! Suit!_

He smiles. At least his fans are the happy constant in his life.

*

For a V.I.P event, there are a lot of people around.

There’s been a blanket ban on flashing cameras, but the presence of the press can be felt strongly; they hover around every corner of the hall, the event room, the offices. Wherever the new Champion goes, she’s hounded by no less than a couple dozen adult reporters, feverishly bombarding her with questions, their voices an unintelligible tangle of excitement and awe. Her new publicist fields the trickier ones with ease, and Raihan figures they’ve both got their work cut out for them in the coming months.

 _Thank God for the open bar_ , he thinks as he heads right for it. Barely an hour in and his suit already feels too stuffy to be in.

He’d chosen a deep, dark blue number paired with a bold tie in burnt orange. He was explicitly forbidden from wearing his beanie for tonight, but he’d be damned if he didn’t rock his iconic colour scheme, black tie dress code or not. It’s a pity that Raihan isn’t one for suits, because he _knows_ he looks good enough to eat. He’d posted a full-length shot of himself on his Galargram and psyched himself up for tonight by reading the thirsty comments on the way to the venue.

“Mr. Raihan,” demurs the barkeep. “What can I get for you?”

“Gin and tonic! Can you gimme the _biggest_ lime wedge?”

“Of course.”

There’s a commotion when Nessa arrives, and Raihan leans against the bar to check her out as the barkeep prepares his drink. He’s used to talking with her as one serious pro-trainer to another, and it’s easy to forget that her modelling career is no joke. That gown, though; Raihan would be tipping his hat if he were allowed to wear it.

She gives him a polite wave as she passes, and instead, he raises his glass. A few of the journos pull away from Nessa and shove a microphone in his face.

“You look striking tonight, Raihan, who are you wearing?”

“Do you have any wisdom to share for the new Champion?”

“What do you think of state of the League now without Chairman Rose?”

Raihan laughs, waves a hand. “I’m afraid tonight’s not about me. We’re here to celebrate the new Champ, right? I think there’ll be time to think about everything that will come later. We’ve had a pretty rough go of it, lately.”

His publicist would be proud – she’d sent him the script, after all.

 _Sorry kid,_ he thinks, watching as the Champion awkwardly laughs at a question that’s just a little too political and complex to be asking a teenager on her first official outing. He can see a vein popping on her publicist’s forehead as he leans forward and snaps some PR zinger right back at the shrinking journo. _Hate to pile it on ya, but that’s how it goes in this business_.

He makes the rounds, chatting up all the League executives and legal teams. He cozies up to the journalists he’s supposed to and avoids the ones he’s not. He makes plans with socialites that he has no intention of following up on and commiserates with the tired waitstaff on the stuffiness of the whole thing. He even gives his publicist a hug.

“What did you do?” she asks suspiciously when he pulls away. “What fires do I have to put out now?”

“You have no faith in me.”

“None whatsoever.”

He laughs. “Nothing happened. I just like seeing people I don’t have to cheese it up for.”

“…Fair enough,” she takes a sip from her glass of wine. “Good of you to make the rounds. Have a break.”

“Fully intend to!”

He settles back into a corner of the room and watches as the lights dim, the stage at the center of the hall being set up for speeches. Guests start taking their seats at tables for the duration, though Raihan wants to stay next to the buffet table and the open bar. Even the press settles down to set up filming equipment and special lenses to take in the presentation. It’s customary for the previous Champion to deliver the closing speech to harken in the reign of the new one, but Leon hasn’t arrived yet – fashionably late, as per instruction, probably, from his PR team. It’s going to be a line of executive after executive, giving out awards that mean nothing and thanks to people that no one knows, all the while hustling for donations and sponsorships, and he already feels his mind start to wander. He’s already finished his first drink, and immediately gets another; more gin, please, and an even bigger slice of lime.

They’re all putting on a brave face, but Raihan knows it must be chaos behind the scenes these days. Having to find a new Chairman _and_ induct a new Champion at the same time probably has everyone working overtime at the office. No one wants to let on just how badly the Darkest Day really shook things up for everyone; it explains the extra fervor surrounding the new Champion, because people will do whatever it takes to take their minds off things that make them uncomfortable.

Raihan looks around the hall, taking a long sip from his drink.

Kabu is off in a far corner, wearing that handsome new suit of his, paired with a deep red tie and black dress shirt that Raihan had made sure to snap up before they left the boutique. He’s holding an empty flute of champagne and is flushing at the cheeks as he converses in quiet tones with Melony – who Raihan stops to admire. Her dress is white and shimmery and clings tightly to her form like layer of paint, and Raihan nearly sends a prayer to whoever’s watching to save his soul.

 _Poor guy_ , Raihan thinks, watching Kabu politely keep his eyes on the woman’s face. _That’s the greatest challenge of all time._

He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be Gordie, having to field all the awkward comments about his mum.

The two of them finish speaking, and Melony waves as she walks away with a fluttery laugh, her Frosmoth serenely gliding in the air behind her. It’s wearing a bowtie around its neck, and Raihan half regrets leaving his pokemon at home; if he’s stuck dressed to the nines, why didn’t he think to bring them along to suffer it with him?

She smiles brightly at him as she passes by and he gives her a respectful little wave.

Raihan approaches Kabu as his fellow leader is smoothing away the small, amused grin on his face.

“I like her too…” whispers Raihan, leaning down and winking. “I have one of her posters on a wall in my apartment. Framed and signed.”

Kabu coughs. “Do you now,” he nearly stutters. “Well. Melony’s charms are certainly…fierce.”

Raihan has one of Kabu on order, too, but he doesn’t mention that one. He’d put it in his online shopping cart after their trip to the boutique in what felt like a fugue state.

A passing server appears to take the empty glass from Kabu, offering another from his tray, which Kabu takes with a nod of thanks.

Raihan takes another drink.

He isn’t sure how to proceed – isn’t sure that he _should_. Kabu doesn’t seem the type for a casual hookup – in fact, in all the years he’s been active in the League Raihan isn’t sure he’s ever heard of Kabu being romantically linked to anyone. Not that he would’ve paid attention if he did, but facts are facts: the man’s a career-minded bachelor. When was the last time he might’ve gotten laid?

 _God_ , he thinks. _Kabu must be_ creaking _._

Thinking about Kabu and sex spurs him to take another long sip.

“You should take it easy on the drinks,” says Kabu, watching the speech on the stage. “The evening has barely started.”

“I’m good, I promise.” Not that good, evidently, now that he’s imagining peeling Kabu out of the suit he bought him. His mind skips back to the sight of him peering curiously up at Raihan, the difference in their heights, how he could’ve tugged down Raihan’s shorts without having to do much reaching at all…

He’s not drunk, but he’d skipped dinner and underestimated the quality of the gin the League stocked for this event. It doesn’t help that he’s an embarrassing lightweight, despite his size.

_Ah, fuck._

“The suit looks great on you,” he says, trying not to sound too into it. “Anya was right, you have a really good eye.”

“Thank you.” Kabu gives him a sideways stare, and in the dim light his eyes are pitch black. “And thank you for purchasing it. I had forgotten to express my gratitude earlier.”

It takes every ounce of self-control he has not to crack some horrid joke about how Kabu could _really_ express his gratitude. He doesn’t want champagne tossed in his face, after all. Instead, he says, “No worries. I’m happy to.”

Kabu hasn’t looked back at the stage. Instead, that sharp gaze is trained on Raihan’s face – looking for something. The back of Raihan’s neck feels hot.

“Why are you?”

“Huh?”

“Why are you happy to be spoiling an old man you barely know?”

How does he answer that? Does he even _have_ an answer for that?

If he was only looking for some action he wouldn’t have needed to bother with the gifts, the breakfast. If Kabu wasn’t the type for a casual hookup, then he certainly wasn’t the type to put out just because someone waved money in his face – he’s got his own for that, though Raihan probably makes twice as much. A League leader’s salary, even without the brand deals and endorsement contracts, is nothing to sneeze at.

He doesn’t have an answer. So he takes another long sip, lets the juniper and lime and mint wash over his tongue as he swallows and stares down Kabu’s intent, dark look.

Kabu places the flute down onto the table next to them, says, “Pardon me,” and walks toward the end of the hall, in the direction of the loo.

There’s no more gin. The mint leaf and fat lime wedge sit lonely atop his half-melted ice cubes.

 _What was it he called me?_ Raihan thinks, cheeks warm. _“Obstinate and presumptuous”?_

He places his empty glass next to Kabu’s full flute and follows.

There’s a loo in the event hall, but Kabu chose to squirrel away to one of the ones out in the hall. When Raihan comes in, he sees Kabu washing his face and rubbing his temples. The fluorescents overheard bring out the stark grey in his hair, and Raihan wants to take a picture – after he’s gotten to run his fingers through it, maybe.

At his entry, Kabu glances over in surprise before turning back to his business, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser and drying off. There’s flecks of water dappling the front of his suit, excess spray from a fancy, high-pressure sink. The countertops are dark marble – kind of tacky, in Raihan’s mind – spattered with drops of water where people haven’t been careful.

Raihan _is_ obstinate; he _is_ presumptuous.

He might not be Champion, but he’s still on top of the world.

He comes almost flush up against Kabu’s back and places his hands onto the countertop on either side of him. It isn’t hard, with Kabu so much shorter, with his body so compact; all tightly packed muscle, lean like hard shank of wood. Strong, yes, but Raihan thinks if he were to get a proper grip on him his fingers and palms could span the entirety of his ribcage.

Raihan looks down at the bared nape of his neck under the suit collar and his neatly trimmed hairline. He doesn’t dare glance up at his own reflection in the mirror, too unnerved by the naked want he’s sure he’d find on his own face there.

“You call a little breakfast and one suit ‘spoiling’?” Raihan murmurs.

“I do.”

“If you want, I can _really_ spoil you…”

He dips his head down, nose against the back of the man’s head. He smells an economical shampoo, the smell of expensive wool and fabric; beneath all of that, a faint hint of classic cologne. He’s smelled that kind before – it came out onto the market before Raihan was even born.

His head swims, and he’s hard enough to pop.

Kabu snorts, before his hand shoots out and clamps tightly around Raihan’s wrist – his grip nearly crunches the bones, and Raihan’s breath catches in his throat. Quick and nimble Kabu turns and hooks his other hand underneath one of Raihan’s thighs, and before he can squawk in surprise he’s being hauled bodily up onto the counter, back smacking hard against the mirror and his elbow grazing a sink faucet.

His legs are gracelessly splayed open, Kabu stood between them, looking down the length of Raihan’s body like he’s cooking up battle strategies; brows drawn together, mouth pursed. Thinking, thinking. Humming low in his throat.

There’s still water dripping down his neck.

“Do you often like to loom over your colleagues,” Kabu asks, “or am I just receiving special treatment?”

“Ah…”

Both of his weathered hands come up to settle on the tops of Raihan’s thighs, his touch gentler than it had been seconds ago. His palms, broad and rough, are warm even through the thick fabric of Raihan’s slacks. There’s the faintest of tan lines where the trainer gloves usually rest, brought out by Hammerlocke’s summer sunlight the last few days. This close, he must feel Raihan shaking.

Raihan clutches the edges of the sinks on either side of him and tries to steady his breathing as Kabu’s thumbs rub idle circles where they rest.

“This is what you’ve been angling for, isn't it?”

Kabu’s hand slowly slides up the considerable length of Raihan’s thigh, stopping when it gets to his crotch. Raihan will swear his breath doesn’t hitch when he does it, and definitely not when the man cups his erection in the curve between his thumb and forefinger, as though holding it out for display. His face hasn’t even changed from its usual frown, and Raihan wants his hands on bare skin so badly he might pass out.

“Throwing your money around,” continues Kabu, possibly oblivious to Raihan’s thoughts screaming in his head. “And all the hovering you do.”

Kabu shakes his head, “Tsk tsk tsk,” he clicks his tongue, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Whatever happened to just asking, anymore?”

He gives Raihan’s groin a sturdy, intent rub with his palm.

_Oh God, it’s happening…_

“Young people and their games,” mutters Kabu, reaching for Raihan’s fly. “So needlessly complicated –”

The sound of the door pushing open jerks them out of their reverie; Kabu shuffles off to the side, pretending to wash his hands in the sink as Raihan scrambles to affect a casual pose on the countertop.

Piers blinks at the sight of them. “…Couldn’t find a chair outside?”

Raihan laughs, nervous and bordering on the edge of shrill. He’s got one of his legs propped up to hide the tent in his trousers, and he prays that Piers doesn’t come any closer. He honestly envies Kabu’s ability to look so stony-faced, as though he hadn’t been moments away from sucking Raihan off in a public toilet during a business party.

 _You’re a wilder one than people think_ , Raihan thinks, sneaking a peek at Kabu’s profile. He has to know more, he _has_ to – because he’s not going to forget this for a long time, and he thinks that if he doesn’t get the chance to park Kabu right onto his cock in the near future he might just _die_.

Piers rolls his eyes. “Right then,” he mutters, making for one of the stalls.

Raihan doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t dare; instead, he listens to the sound of Piers taking a piss and the sound of Kabu ripping another paper towel free from the dispenser. The crunching noise of paper in wet palms, the sound of it getting tossed into the bin. The distant drone of the crowd outside. Kabu isn’t leaving yet, and neither is Raihan. They probably have something to talk about, once in the blood stops rushing in Raihan’s ears.

Eventually Piers does leave, throwing a suspicious look over his shoulder at the two men dallying around.

Kabu sighs. “I should apologize,” he says. “I…forgot where we were.”

“ _You_? Forgot?” Kabu didn’t seem the forgetful sort.

“Mm,” Kabu crosses his arms, giving Raihan a bland look. “You can be very distracting.”

Unable to help himself, Raihan grins with pride. He tips his head to the side, coy: “So I _do_ affect you.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“You’re just…a tough read.” Raihan says. “Figured I wasn’t getting through that head of yours.”

“I see.”

Kabu starts to turn, heading for the door, and Raihan scrambles off the counter and intercepts him. “Wait, wait – that’s it? We’re not…?”

“We’re in public,” says Kabu, slowly as though he was speaking to a kid. “At an official League function.”

“So then let’s get out of here,” says Raihan, feeling uncomfortably desperate. All his blood is still south of his waist, and now that he knows Kabu is interested he’s not sure he can let this go. “My apartment is close by – and your hotel is even _closer_.”

Shaking his head, Kabu sighs. “You’re being rude. Leon hasn’t even made his resignation speech yet.”

Deep down, Raihan knows he’s being rude and probably more than a little bit selfish. The Champion party is a big deal, and the starry-eyed kid out there doesn’t deserve to watch her future colleagues leaving early just to get some…

_God, why is this my life?_

He groans. “Okay, okay – you’re right. Of course, you’re right,” he raises his hands, placating. “What about after the party?”

“I have an early train tomorrow back to Motostoke.”

“Mr. Kabu, please!” he’s very close to begging, pride be damned.

Kabu gives Raihan a pat on the hip in what he’s sure is _supposed_ to be a comforting gesture. “You’ll live.”

“I won’t!”

Shaking his head, he swerves around Raihan and heads for the door. “You’re not low on options, Dragon Tamer. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Raihan whines, head in his hands. In a moment of petty imagination, he envisions telling the world that Galar’s Fire Leader is a goddamn cocktease – but who would believe him?

Rotom flies out of his pocket, chirping in sympathy.

Then it brings up the official ticketing site of Galar’s rail service, pausing on the page for booking trips to Motostoke.

“You,” says Raihan, a smile creeping across his face, “are my _best friend_.”


	5. asking

_“When most think of the end of an era there is nostalgia, and even sadness._

_But the rise of a new Champion is a different sort of feeling, isn’t it?_

_Tonight, there should be no sadness! Or even nostalgia!_

_Tonight, there should only be joy._

_Tonight, we should look only forward._

_I have always known this night would come, some day._

_But I never thought that I would get to pass on the title to someone like you –_

_Someone so strong, and inspiring._

_A fierce challenger with an even fiercer heart!_

_You showed me the path I need to take – that we all need to take – to make the world a better place for those who come after us._

_And so, it’s with great honour and excitement that I, Leon, now formally pass on the title of Champion…_

_…to the greatest Champion Galar has ever seen!_

_Here’s to a champion time!”_

Raihan doesn’t remember much of last night after Kabu had left, because Leon had arrived and made his speech, and then Raihan had started drinking in earnest. It’s all a blur, after that; he knows that at some point, Milo – the absolute angel that he is – had taken him away to one of the far offices in the building to keep him away from the eyes of the paparazzi.

The speech had been a dazzling affair. Leon had stood tall and proud on stage, bathed in lights and wearing his iconic garb, his cape draped over his shoulders one final time. The speech had been followed by a symbolic removal of said cape, where he had placed it over the new Champion’s tiny little shoulders, beaming with a smile that hurt to look at.

It had _really_ hurt to look at it. Raihan remembers downing his drink at the sight of it, at what it all meant. Both Leon and the Champion had smiled at each other, glowing like angels, looking toward the future and none of it had been a dream and _all_ of it had been too much.

This morning, Raihan nearly calls off the train ride to Motostoke. The hangover isn’t the worst he’s had – he’s sure the one he had after Leon’s induction was much, much worse – but it’s enough to make him want to hide for at least the entire day. Still, Rotom’s alarm goes off and Raihan manages to summon the willpower to pull himself up out of bed and pack a few sets of clothes in his bag, before stepping out of his loft for breakfast. After a handful of painkillers, of course.

Taking a Corviknight taxi to Motostoke would be faster, but he’s too queasy to handle the violent rocking of the cab today. So, Raihan settles himself in to the boxcar he has booked all for himself, pulls his beanie down to cover his eyes, and sleeps like the dead for the whole trip.

*

The air in Motostoke always feels flushed with steam. The city smells of dampness and bricks, and in the distance, one can always hear the noisy creaking of iron cranes and the groaning of lifts. It’s a place stuck in time, trapped by ages old notions of industry. Hammerlocke is the heart of Galar, but tourists come to Motostoke first, drawn by the relentless presence of history.

Raihan likes the place well enough, though he’s never had reason for a prolonged stay. He’s only ever had eyes for the biggest, brightest things in life – the tallest peak, the loudest voice in the room. He’s a Hammerlocke boy who wanted to be Champion, a trainer who sought to tame dragons. Complexity was for people who didn’t know themselves well enough, he’d always thought.

_Then why are you here?_

Chasing the attentions of an old man, apparently. A far cry from anything he _should_ be doing.

He leans against the wall of a coffeeshop and checks his phone, biting at the straw of his drink. Iced coffee, coconut milk. Extra ice. The headache has mostly faded, and Raihan wants to treat himself for surviving this far.

That, and there are text messages from his publicist waiting for him.

 **UH OH** : Where are you.

 **Me** : motostoke

 **UH OH** : Why are you in Motostoke.

 **Me** : vacay, remember? relax its just for a few days

 **UH OH** : BUT WHY.

He puts the phone away. In his haste to scramble after Kabu, he’d forgotten to tell his publicist that he’d be out of town for a few days. Whoops.

That was his first mistake, his second is that he hadn’t bothered to find out where Kabu even lived. So, he’s spent the better part of the last hour wandering the entertainment district, having not a clue where he should start, still carrying his travel bag around with him like a lost tourist. Eventually, after he finishes his iced coffee, he figures that his first stop might as well be the gym, where he is met with a large sign parked in front of the entrance:

“The Motostoke Gym is currently closed until further notice.

Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Raihan sighs. He should have realized.

It’s lucky for him that he catches sight of one of the gym’s maintenance guys exiting the building through an employee entrance, dressed in casual clothes and clearly done for the day.

“Hey!” Raihan catches up to him and gives him a friendly wave. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Oh…my God,” he’s a young fellow, barely out of his teens. Gawky and starstruck, he’s nearly trembling with awe, and so Raihan gives him his biggest smile. “You’re Raihan, oh my _God_.”

“That’d be me, yeah,” he chuckles.

“You can ask me anythin’ you want! Oh wait, can I have a picture?!”

After a few selfies – most of which were not good enough, so the guy insists on retaking them – and exchanged pleasantries, Raihan asks him where he might find Kabu.

“Hm. Well, at this time of day he’s usually workin’ out – normally he would use the gym in the stadium, but what with it bein’ closed an’ all I think he’s using the public one down by the shopping district. If he’s not there already, then he will be soon.”

Which is enough of a lead, so Raihan bids him goodbye (and gives him an autographed League card) and makes his way over to the shopping district, keeping his eyes peeled for red clothes and a grey head.

*

Unlike yesterday, Lady Luck is on his side today, because he finds Kabu almost instantly.

Raihan manages to find the gym in question – a huge, Pokémon-friendly gym with bright signage at the corner of the block – and his eyes catch on the man walking half a block away, unmistakable with his short stature and straight posture, clutching a duffel bag. Familiar red clothes, the gym uniform that he will probably die in, if Kabu has his way.

Raihan kind of misses the expensive suit, but he can admit to himself what suits Kabu more.

When Kabu gets close, his eyes widen. For a little while they simply stare at one another – Kabu in surprise, Raihan in appraisal.

“I assume this is no coincidence,” says Kabu, crossing his arms.

 _I change my mind_ , Raihan thinks. _Compression shirts are hot_.

“Nope.”

Sighing, Kabu shakes his head and beckons for Raihan to follow him into the gym. The place is mostly empty, with one person behind the check in counter who gives them a polite wave as they enter. They choose a secluded corner of the lobby to talk, mostly hidden from view, next to a fake potted plant and vending machine full of different sports drinks and bottled waters for both humans and Pokémon alike.

“So,” Kabu says, frowning. “What brings you to Motostoke?”

“That’d be you,” says Raihan, grinning. Teasing. “You didn’t think I’d let you get away after that whole thing at the party, did you?”

“I was hoping you would, actually.”

“Well, tough luck.”

They stare at each other, and Raihan’s grin falls off his face. Nervousness threatens to cool his heels, but he can’t let it; he’s in too deep now, too hard. He got a taste of what he could expect from this man last night, and he know he’d be completely foolish if he didn’t chase him for the real thing.

That, and the echoes of Leon’s speech still ring in his head. The sound of his voice saying farewell. The sight of his smile, the Champion’s smile…

Maybe it’s wrong of him to be hounding Kabu like this, but Raihan can’t stop now. He’s so close, and all he ever wants is to win.

All teasing falls away from him, and Raihan sobers. He jams his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting, and he calls forth the parts of him that know how to be earnest.

“Last night, you said, ‘ _whatever happened to just asking, anymore_?’” Kabu blinks at him, shocked at his remembrance. “Well…here I am, Mr. Kabu. Asking.”

The thing about Leon’s smile, last night, is that it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t plastered on through sheer willpower for the sake of being polite; it was a true smile, from a place of true happiness. Raihan has no doubt that Leon never wanted to quit being Champion, but the loss of the crown didn’t make him crumble like it would anyone else. It should have been inspiring, but Raihan could only look upon it and feel everything that he was losing in its wake.

 _Have you ever felt like that?_ He thinks, watching Kabu’s stoic face.

His heart hammers in his chest.

_Does it ever get easier?_

Eventually, Kabu sighs through his nose. He uncrosses his arms, and says, “I accept.”

Only Kabu could make such a formal response to a request for hooking up sound so charming. Maybe it’s something that comes with age, but Raihan imagines a younger Kabu saying the same thing, with his smooth face and neatly trimmed black hair looking up at Raihan with such serious eyes, and thinks that no, it might just be a Kabu thing.

He can’t keep the grin from coming back. He nearly cheers.

“But not at the moment,” says Kabu, pointing behind him to the desk. “I am here for a reason, after all.”

“Like to exercise, huh?”

Raihan gives him a purposeful leer. The knowledge that he’s going to get to have that body all to himself later nearly makes him purr.

“It’s good for you,” says Kabu, ignoring the flirting. “Especially as you become older.”

“I got some time yet.”

“It will catch up with you,” Kabu says, a small smile on his mouth. Eyes crinkled with mirth.

Raihan wants to kiss him, wants to ride out this feeling of victory – the first good feeling he’s had in days, since Leon’s defeat.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “But in the meantime…”

“Join me.”

“Huh?”

Kabu is already turning around, heading toward the front desk. Raihan jogs after him, watching as he presents his membership card to the clerk and purchases Raihan a one-day pass.

“Hey –”

“You’ve come all this way, haven’t you?” Kabu says over his shoulder, brow raised. His voice borders the edge of being smarmy, and Raihan wants to drag him to the ground and cram his hands up the man’s shirt.

*

As with everything he does, Kabu takes a day at the gym seriously.

There’s the usual stuff that most people do – cardio, weights, those rowing machines that make Raihan’s calves burn – but the gym they’re at is a two-level, Pokémon-inclusive gym. There are only a handful of other people there this afternoon, and all of them have their Pokémon out: on the level upstairs, one fellow is using his Machamp as a spotter, and on the mats by the mirror is a woman whose Clefable is sitting on her feet so she can do proper sit-ups.

Kabu, though…Kabu is on the bottom level, running on the indoor track with his Ninetales.

He isn’t racing her – she’s far faster than he is, lapping him several times over, an elegant white streak darting around the track – but he’s keeping an astonishing pace that has Raihan sitting bug-eyed at the bench. Kabu had challenged him to run with him earlier, but Raihan had made a beeline for the weight racks first thing and now his body hurts. He figures that if he wants to wake up tomorrow without falling apart, he’d better take it easy.

That, and he’d rather enjoy the view and the rather practical demonstration of the man’s stamina.

He doesn’t keep track of time, distracted by his first real workout in ages. Nessa had once griped at him for his metabolism and lucky genes while everyone else had to work for it, and he couldn’t fight her on it, because it was true. The last time he’d set foot in a gym was…farther back than he can really recall. But it feels good, even when he’s heaving for breath and sweating up a storm. It feels good to work his body, and it feels good to get pulled out of his own head to focus on what’s in front of him. He should do this more often, if only to keep himself from spiraling into a deep hole of depression at the thought of championships, the things he’ll never have…

Eventually, even Kabu tires. He comes to Raihan looking wrung out and relaxed, a pleased smile on his face, his hands clutching loosely at the towel hanging around his neck. His skin shines with a fine layer of sweat, his shirt damp at the armpits from it. Raihan’s eyes fly all over him, taking a deep breath with his nose; he reeks, the sharp smell of a man who’s been at it all day, and Raihan kind of wants to bury his noise in that tousled hair just to get more of it.

“Satisfying, isn’t it?” asks Kabu.

It takes a second for Raihan to realize he’s referring to the exercise, and not his own gym stink.

“Yeah…definitely.” Raihan stands. “Guess even you’ve got your limits, huh?”

“I always advocate for pushing past one’s limits,” says Kabu, chuckling as he recalls his Ninetales back into her ball. “But some limits should be respected.”

They head to the locker rooms, Raihan following at Kabu’s back, looking at the damp spot on his shirt between his shoulder blades and the way the hairs at the back of his neck stick to his skin.

He watches Kabu dab the towel all over his face and throat and remembers the night of the party, the feeling of Kabu’s hands all over him, the expression on his face and the rasp of his voice.

“ _Young people and their games. So needlessly complicated…_ ”

If it had been up to Raihan, they might’ve gotten nowhere. But Kabu had taken initiative and had taken _liberties_ , sniffing Raihan out before Raihan himself had realized what he’d been after and tried to spare them both the song and dance. He’d chucked Raihan onto the counter and nearly sucked him off during a League party and here Raihan was, staring after him like a stray, hungry for scraps of his attention and unsure of himself, still.

 _If he can take liberties_ , he thought. _So can I_.

His fingers latch around a firm bicep, and with a pull Raihan tugs him toward the lockers. He knows how solid Kabu is, has felt his strength for himself, but the loud slam of his back against the metal nearly makes him pause. Sturdy as a stone. A man who might’ve been at home training rock types, or steel.

Kabu’s eyes are wide with surprise, and his lips part on a question that Raihan steals right out of his mouth.

He’s sure he’s never kissed anyone like this in his life – not so forcefully. _Definitely_ not so forcefully, barging past the seal of Kabu’s lips with his tongue like he’s owed it.

 _I am owed it_ , he thinks, feeling himself verging on hysteria; a wild, lust-coloured haze that’s choking out his brain. _He wrote a check at that party and now I’m gonna fucking cash it_.

Raihan has to crouch to be level with him but it doesn’t matter, not when Kabu’s mouth is hot and wet like nothing else. This close, he can smell nothing but sweating skin and the fading scent of his generic, department store deodorant. He slots one of his hands behind Kabu’s damp neck, thumb sweeping through his hair, pushing until the man is nearly squashed right into the lockers. His other shoots downward, shoving its way up under his uniform and compression shirt, groping at warm, slick skin and thinking about all the ways he’s going to mark it all up later. Or right now.

Smaller, stronger hands rest themselves on his hips, thumbs rubbing little circles on the spots where his bones jut from his skin. Kabu submits to the kiss so fast it makes Raihan almost dizzy with power.

His groan is loud enough to echo.

Panting against Kabu’s mouth, he lets go of his middle and shoves both of his hands down the back of his shorts to squeeze at his ass.

Kabu pulls his mouth away with a gasp, heaving for air. Raihan eyes the bump of his throat, the way it bobs as he swallows.

Pulling their fronts flush together, Raihan grinds himself against Kabu’s stomach, leaning his forehead against the lockers. He wants to kiss him as he does it, but the difference in their height is too great, so he settles for breathing hard against the cool metal as he kneads the man’s firm cheeks, rutting up against him like a desperate teenager. He feels Kabu’s face pressed up against his chest, the sharp pinch of Kabu’s teeth as he bites into Raihan’s sweatshirt, muffling his quiet little gasps.

“I wanna fuck you so badly,” Raihan says. No flair, no posturing; just the truth, as simply as he can tell it with his body and his voice.

He wants to put Kabu right onto his cock and never let him leave it. It’s absurd that they’re even still clothed, he thinks, shivering with want.

Rotom vibrates in his back pocket. Raihan ignores it, but Kabu doesn’t.

Gently – but purposefully – Kabu pushes him away with a firm palm on Raihan’s chest. There’s a wet spot on the cloth of his sweatshirt where his mouth was.

“We’re in public.” He says. “…Again.”

“There’s no one here,” Raihan retorts, already reaching for him – but Kabu swats his hands away, looking disgruntled.

“I have met your publicist.” Kabu gives him a pointed look.

“Yeah, so she’s a little intense, but what does that –”

“Not half as intense as mine.” Kabu straightens, smoothing down his clothes. “And if I managed to find myself on the news for public indecency, he would have my hide.”

Groaning, Raihan scrubs his hands down his face, pulling his beanie over his eyes and blotting out the bright overhead lights. He peers into the dark for a little while, calming his breathing. He knows Kabu has a point – he _knows_. He’s just frustrated. Hornier than he’s been since he was a wild teenager and so close to getting something he wants, badly.

“Where’s your house?” he asks, smoothing his beanie back and clearing his throat.

Kabu’s too mature to roll his eyes, but Raihan can tell he wants to. “Close.”

“Then let’s go,” Raihan’s shoulders sag. “…Please?”

Running a hand through his hair, Kabu appears to think about it, deliberating with an easy, slow pace as if the fate of Raihan’s blue balls weren’t on the line.

“Shower first,” says Kabu, pulling away from the lockers. “Then we will go.”

“Oh, thank God!”

*

Plans change when they step outside. Rain is pelting the cobblestones, steaming down the overhang in harsh rivulets almost like a waterfall in miniature.

Kabu comes to a total stop and watches it with wide, reverent eyes.

“I had forgotten it was going to rain,” he said, before slowly turning face with Raihan with an apologetic look. “When it rains,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand, catching drops on his palm, “I train.”

Letting the heavy rainfall hammer down on his fire types is exactly the kind of insane training regimen a man like Kabu would undertake. It doesn’t surprise him one bit, even if Raihan feels himself nearly cursing.

“What? Now?” Raihan puffs up in agitation. “Can’t you skip just this once?”

“I’ve been doing this for nearly 20 years.” Kabu says. Raihan almost whines.

“Oh, come on…” it _isn’t_ a whine, but he isn’t proud of the way his voice pitches in his frustration, either. “How can you always be so unaffected…?”

He’s starting to wonder if the outburst at the party was a fluke. A fever dream his brain made up out of desperation, or pent-up sexual frustration.

“…I’m not unaffected,” says Kabu. “It isn’t about you, Raihan. It’s about discipline.”

Raihan doesn’t voice the quip that comes to mind about Kabu and discipline, but it’s a close call.

Kabu looks out onto the street and quiets, his low tones nearly drowned out by the crashing rain: “I do not like the person I am without discipline.”

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

Kabu sighs. “A self-destructive embarrassment of a man.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but Raihan can feel the weight of many years behind those words. There’s a story there – or many stories; he finds that he wants to hear them, just as much as he wants to put the old man onto his belly and show them both the good time they’ve promised to each other.

Cooling a little, Raihan crosses his arms and leans against edge of the entryway. He watches Kabu’s profile, the way he looks in the rain – _the ever-burning man of fire_ surrounded by his natural weakness. Who wants to throw himself right into it in the name of getting stronger.

Slowly, a smile crawls its way across Kabu’s face.

“Battle me.” Kabu says, looking over. His eyes are bright, fierce like they are nowhere else but out on the field – and despite himself, Raihan feels himself drawn closer. Ignited.

“I’ll win,” he murmurs back, but he’s itching now. He hasn’t battled anyone in days.

“Yes,” Kabu nods. “You are the strongest leader in the League for a reason. And that is all the _more_ reason for me to train against you.”

An answering smirk forms on Raihan’s face, crooked and intent. He feels it almost against his will, some part of him wanting to be obstinate about sticking to their original plans. But he’s agreeing to it even before he tells the man yes, because the only thing he loves more than battling or even fucking is being flattered.

“I’m getting another kiss out of you when I win, then,” he says. “ _And_ I’m taking you to dinner.”


	6. almost champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [taps that 'medium burn' tag] sorry, raihan's balls

They grab a fast taxi to the wilds.

The anticipation of a good battle makes his fingertips tingle, his ears roar with the rush of his own blood. Crammed up close to Kabu in the little cab, Raihan thinks of strategies and maneuvers. His nose catches the smell of Kabu’s clean, showered skin and his freshly laundered change of clothes – a practical collared top, old khakis several years out of fashion.

Raihan has the grace to feel a little embarrassed about his lapse of reason in the locker room. But now he’s excited for different reasons.

It’s been years since he’s battled Kabu – since he’d earned his fire badge during his time in the gym challenge. Over a decade, since.

The taxi drops them off in the zone just outside the city, underneath the looming bridges high overhead. Dangerous ground for people who didn’t have the strongest Pokémon at their back.

Kabu tips the Corviknight, giving it a pet on the back before the bird flies away. The rain falls hard enough to beat Raihan’s puffy sweatshirt flat, his skin nearly aching from the impact. They might catch cold after this, but Raihan hasn’t battled anyone in days – it will be worth it, if they do.

Kabu, too, looks alight with excitement.

“Three vs three?” Raihan yells over the rain.

 _Sandstorm would be shit in all this_ , he thinks, looking around them. _Just turn everything into mud…_

It’s been even longer since he’s had a match out of the arena – no gigantamaxing, no screaming crowds. None of his flashy tricks; just a good old-fashioned battle, and as much as Raihan loves to be a showboat and loves the spectacle of it all, he’s down with getting back to the basics.

Kabu nods. His hair is darker when wet, and Raihan gets a flash of memory, too quick and too vague to grasp the details: a battle long ago with a younger man, black-haired with a slighter build than the one in front of him now. Victory had come hard, but Raihan had felt higher than the stars.

“Three vs three.”

The wind and rain howl around them, and Raihan wants to howl with them.

*

As he promised, Raihan wins.

They get back to the city soaking wet, but in good spirits. Tired but pleased, loose-limbed and hearts beating in a slow, relaxed march.

“What’s the best Hoenn restaurant in Motostoke, then?” Raihan asks, once they get off the taxi. He intends to follow through with his promise - take Kabu out to dinner. Chasing the thrill of a good battle with spending his money on someone he likes is exactly how he wants to end his day. “The most authentic.”

Kabu snorts, looking quietly amused. “There is no authentic Hoenn cuisine here, it’s all adjusted to suit Galarian palates.”

“Oh…”

“If you want to eat something authentic,” he continues, “my kitchen would be the best choice.”

“You cook?”

Kabu gives him a withering look. “You _don’t_?”

“Well…”

“A young man living on his own ought to know how to cook.”

“Hey, I’m busy.”

“Everyone’s busy,” says Kabu, “but feeding yourself is a basic necessity.”

“All right, all right,” Raihan sighs. “No need for the lecture.”

“There is a place here that serves very good Kantonian, if you’d like.”

“Sounds great.”

Kabu gestures and Raihan follows. They walk a few blocks until they come to a stop in front of a humble-looking restaurant tucked between a chain coffee shop and a trendy-looking Alolan fast-food stop. Raihan rushes forward to hold open the door for Kabu and is gratified when that gets him a small chuckle.

“Welcome!”

The server is a small young woman, even shorter than Kabu, with long dark hair and big eyes. Her makeup is done in a style not in fashion in Galar, but she still looks cute anyway. She and Kabu converse in a different language, and Raihan tries not to feel too inconspicuous in their presence; a tall, gangly Hammerloke boy in quiet, calm Motostoke, among people from different shores. Eventually, she leads them to a booth in the back of the restaurant, away from the other patrons – a perk of Kabu either being the local gym Leader, or enough of a regular to get friendly with the staff.

A little bit of both, maybe, Raihan thinks as he watches the two of them smile at each other.

She brings them tea as they settle in, and Kabu asks Raihan if he needs a menu as he’s putting his damp sweatshirt over the back of his chair.

“You know what, I trust you,” he grins. “Pick something for me.”

“The udon is good here.”

He gives the server a thumbs up. “I’ll get that.”

She giggles, and even blushes a little bit.

Kabu orders something he has a hard time pronouncing – a kind of pork cutlet, he’s told – and takes a sip of his tea.

Raihan’s worn out – the day began with a hangover and ended with a good battle, and his body is still working through the rush of going to the gym before that. If he’s honest, he’s too tired for sex at this point, but it’s still a treat to look at Kabu in front of him under the low lights of the restaurant, skin still drying from the rain.

He’s exhausted, but his mind supplies the image of sucking the rainwater off Kabu’s exposed collarbones anyway. Maybe one day they’ll be familiar enough that he can do exactly that…

“I like this place,” Raihan murmurs, gesturing around them. Rotom floats between them, taking pictures of the décor. “Good taste, Mr. Kabu.”

“You don’t need to call me that,” Kabu says, sighing shaking his head. “We’re colleagues.”

He pauses, then adds in quiet, private tones: “And it seems we are going to be sleeping together.”

Raihan’s cheeks flood with heat and Kabu quirks a brow at the expression on his face – is it shock? Is it fear? Who knows, certainly not Raihan. He doesn’t know what it is about the honest truth of it, the simple and unfettered way Kabu talks, that makes him feel as though he’s about to stumble. Raihan’s a grown man now, has been in more people’s beds than he can count, has lived the high life fame bought him for years – so why now? And why Kabu?

Talking to Kabu brings him back down to earth again. It makes him feel young and brash, in need of a guiding hand, someone to set things right for him. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

 _God_ , he thinks. _I’m way more of a weirdo than even I thought I was._

“Why are you so nervous?” Kabu asks. “You have had no issues being bold until now.”

“Yeah, when I wasn’t sure there was even a chance.”

Raihan has always been honest person, and these days it’s much easier being honest to someone else than himself. It’s even easier to be honest to Kabu, as much as Raihan still fumbles with the right thing to say to him, because it feels as though Kabu might have all the answers. He’s certainly seen it all, lived it all – what surprises can Raihan honestly bring to his life that he hasn’t had some taste of before? It’s both intimidating and comforting, all at once.

“You often get what you want,” says Kabu. “This shouldn’t be different.”

“Wish I could tell you, Mr. Kabu.”

“I just said you don’t have to –”

“I like it.” He hadn’t meant to admit this, but he’s in it now. No point in trying to swerve his way out.

Kabu waits for him to continue.

“Look,” Raihan takes a deep gulp of his tea. It warms his belly and soothes his inexplicable nerves. “I can’t really say what’s been up with me, or my tastes, or anything. I just know I like being around you, and I know you joke about it but there's something about you being as, uh, old as you are – no offence – that’s kind of hot. It’s like you know what’s up all the time and I don’t have to worry about anything.”

He takes another drink, just to occupy his big stupid mouth.

 _Way to sound like a total freak, Raihan_ , he thinks, his inner voice a snarling, embarrassed mess. _Telling him you’ve got a sudden old man fetish because you can’t sort yourself out with this whole championship thing and it’s been making you mad. Fucking smooth._

He expects judgement, or even worry, from Kabu. Instead, he sees something unthinkably close to sympathy.

“I’m beginning to understand.”

“…You do?”

They quiet down as the server comes and sets out their food and refills their tea. When she leaves, Kabu gives him a serious, considering sort of look that makes Raihan straighten up in his chair.

“I lost my seat as leader once,” says Kabu. His eyes look faraway, lost in the past. “Many years ago. It was the most difficult time of my life.”

Raihan only vaguely remembers it being in the news, because that had been before his time in the league circuit. But people lost their seats all the time, sometimes with many leaders coming and going in the same year; it wasn’t major news to see one defeated, or even retiring early from the stress of it all. Leaders like Kabu or Opal – staying in their position for decades – are a rarity. Most just didn’t stick around for long.

Kabu, though – Raihan knows Kabu by now. Losing would have been blow.

He pinches some noodles in his chopsticks and takes a bite. Kabu does the same with his cutlet, and there’s a few moments where they only eat, letting Kabu’s words hang in the air between them. There are many years in those words, a multitude of experiences and feelings Raihan can barely imagine.

“Must’ve been rough,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. It was so long ago, and Kabu is twice the trainer now than he was back then. Those old wounds are closed by now, he hopes.

“Yes,” Kabu nods. “There I was: scouted and formally invited to Galar, this place so far from home…sponsored by the League, endorsed by conglomerates back in Hoenn…and I lost my seat without ever making Champion.”

He doesn’t sound sore about it now, but Raihan can imagine the moment of defeat, watching his last Pokémon fall and knowing that after congratulating the opponent, he was going to have to walk back to his locker room and receive the message that he’d been bumped back down to minor division. It would be crushing, humiliating. It would be the end of the fucking world.

“I couldn’t go home,” Kabu continues, picking up another piece of meat. “I couldn’t face any of it, all the people I’d disappointed, on top of disappointing myself. But my state of mind was…fragile, and I stayed from training and bettering myself to pursue…well, anything else.”

“’Strayed?’”

“I will spare you the details,” says Kabu, taking a drink. “Because I’m no longer one for wallowing in self-pity. I will just say that I spent an inordinate amount of time in the arms of strangers, doing whatever I could to forget my own pain.”

Raihan wouldn’t have thought it of him – Kabu is so calm and self-assured. Measured, and level-headed. Definitely not the type to go on a spree of hookups just to shut off his own brain.

_What would he have been like?_

Shamefully, the thought of a younger Kabu falling into the arms of strangers makes his cheeks heat, and he can’t help but reach out for this one piece of information that brings them on even ground. Because Raihan gets self-destruction, even if he’s never gone to those extremes. It’s something he understands because it’s a temptation every day he’s not Champion, made worse since Leon got dethroned.

“Can’t imagine you doin’ any of that,” he says, staring down at the tabletop. He drums his fingers at the table’s edge to a distantly familiar rhythm, and the pads of his thumbs are sticking to the plastic covering where the server missed a spot in cleaning. “Bringing girls home just to screw bad thoughts away.”

Kabu levels him a flat look: “What made you think it was only women?”

Slowly, Raihan looks back up at him and holds his gaze. The rhythm stops; his mouth doesn’t. “I didn’t. I just wanted to hear you admit it out loud.”

“Hmph,” Kabu shakes his head. “Underhanded. I’ve accepted your _request_ , haven’t I?”

“I don’t know – maybe you’re having a mid-life crisis, or you’re just up for experimenting…”

“I’ve done all the experimenting I’ll ever need to do,” says Kabu, wiping his mouth carefully with the napkin and placing it gently onto the table, folded in half to hide the dirty side. “I have let enough large, arrogant men drag me into alleyways and stockrooms to know what I like by now.”

Raihan is certain that his heart stops. “S-say that again?”

“I know you heard me.”

Raihan nearly groans in frustration. “Please…”

Crossing his arms, Kabu leans back in his seat. His expression is bland, completely unmoving.

 _Big fan of the arms_ , Raihan thinks. _Guy’s gotta stop hiding them in those shirts._

“…You didn’t think I gave in to your chasing because I’m generous, did you?”

“Um.”

“I agreed because you’re attractive, and I am interested,” Kabu explains, slowly. Spelling it out for Raihan because somehow Raihan hadn’t considered Kabu’s side of things while he was chasing his own hard-on like a randy teenager.

It’s foolish, in hindsight. Raihan mentions as much to Kabu, who shakes his head.

“I may be older,” he says, “but I’m not dead. I have desires, too.”

“Of course, you do,” Raihan slurps his broth, buying himself some time to think during this awkward rut in their conversation. “I never thought you didn’t!”

“Didn’t you?”

All right, maybe he did. Maybe he hadn’t considered that Kabu was someone who possessed a sex drive, that he was someone who looked at people too, and maybe thought of their bodies and the feel and taste of their skin. The ways he might touch them and watch them unravel, just like Raihan does. And now he knows that Kabu has been watching Raihan back and thinking of fucking him, and he feels almost like he’s about to go crazy.

Raihan had only seen the grey hair and the mellow attitude around young trainers and hadn’t considered that it wasn’t the totality of his colleague’s personality.

 _Oh my God,_ he thinks. _I’m a dumbass…and Kabu knows I’m a dumbass and wants to fuck me anyway?_

“…Sorry.” It’s all he can think to say, gently putting his bowl back down onto the tabletop.

After a while, Kabu shrugs and picks his chopsticks back up, but Raihan is too distracted by what he had said earlier. It won’t let him go. The piece of cutlet is halfway to Kabu’s mouth when Raihan blurts out: “So…what _do_ you like from large, arrogant men?”

“This isn’t the time or the place to be discussing my sexual preferences,” says Kabu, popping it into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, indifferent to Raihan’s crisis in front of him.

“No one can hear us.”

“It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Who’s the riskiest person you’ve ever fucked?”

“Raihan.”

The conversation calms, Raihan letting go of his strangely giddy energy. He’s gotten a peek into Kabu’s past, the man behind the fire badge, to find someone raw and real and _interesting_. It’s been a long time since he’s found himself interested in anyone other than Leon or himself.

“All of this is to say that I understand,” continues Kabu, finishing his bowl. “I understand reaching for something when you feel as though you’ve lost control.”

“What makes you think I’ve lost control?”

“I don’t _think_ , I _know_. Someone who throws himself as wholly into something as you do will feel the consequences much more strongly than someone who is more…measured.”

It sounds like an awfully polite way of calling him obsessed – and Raihan can’t even argue the point, because he _knows_ he’s obsessed. He’s just not sure that it isn’t too late to change that, now.

Sympathy softens Kabu’s face, wipes away his natural sternness and turns him into something gentle. He keeps talking, his rasping voice softening with every word: “It takes a certain kind of person to be a gym leader, to chase the crown so passionately. A certain kind of people…to be almost-Champions and to live with that.”

Kabu looks down at the tops of his own hands. The soft glow of the restaurant’s light smoothes out the age on them, the popping veins and the rounded, hard knuckles. The weathered skin, not quite as taut over all of it as it used to be many years ago.

“People like us…don’t have the healthiest relationship to our own wants and desires.”

Raihan finishes his soup, plays with stray bit of onion with his chopstick. He laughs, a little weakly. “You don’t hold back, that’s for sure.”

Kabu hums.

The server comes and clears their plates, refilling their tea. When she leaves, Raihan’s eyes catch Kabu’s, and they stare at each from across the table. Who knows what it is that Kabu sees in him – a kindred spirit, he’s basically said as much, but what else?

“I’ve upset you,” says Kabu.

“A little bit,” says Raihan. “But I’ll get over it.”

Kabu smiles. “You’re more resilient than I ever was.”

“Give yourself some more credit; you’re still here, aren’t you?” Raihan smiles back.

“I am, yes,” Kabu nods. “And remember – so are you.”

*

The night air is crisp in Motostoke, and Raihan shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, mercifully dry by now. Everything smells of rain.

“Thank you for the meal,” says Kabu.

“No problem.”

Reaching out, Kabu gestures to Raihan’s phone. Perplexed, he hands it over and watches and the man types something into it – slowly, with the point of his index finger.

“Come to my house tomorrow morning,” says Kabu, handing it back. He’s added his contact info into the address book. “I will make you breakfast from Hoenn. It’s time I treated you to something.”

“You don’t have to,” says Raihan, though he’s already grinning. “But I’ll accept. I wanna watch you cook.”

Kabu squints suspiciously at him.

“Because you’re hot.”

Kabu rubs his temples as Raihan laughs. He feels light, his body tenderized from the travel, the exercise, the battle. Sleepiness is already creeping into him, and he anticipates tonight he’ll sleep like the dead.

“Hey,” he starts, looking around at the empty street. “I said I was gonna get another kiss, remember?”

He comes close and leans down, meets him halfway and takes Kabu’s face in both his hands as he slots his mouth over his. The kiss is more chaste than he wants it to be – and over quickly – but it’s warm and full of promise. The feel of Kabu’s hands on him, gripping his shoulders, is steadily becoming more familiar now, welcome and wanted.

They part, Raihan straightening up with a pleased hum. Kabu adjusts his hair, messed from Raihan’s wandering, curious fingers.

He thinks of the things he wants, thinks about Kabu’s words back in the restaurant – all those things about desire. He thinks about tomorrow, and quiets his voice as he asks, cautiously: “Is it…just going to be breakfast, tomorrow?”

Kabu shrugs, but he looks serene. He’s open to it; Raihan’s wants, Raihan’s desires. “We will have to see where the mood takes us.”

“I’m pretty much always in the mood.”

“Don’t force these things, Raihan,” says Kabu, already turning. He waves behind him as he goes, a small, sturdy shape in Motostoke’s lamplight. “There is always time.”


	7. good company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the un-blueing of raihan's balls

Morning comes and Raihan’s body hurts.

The sleep was a deeper one than he’s had in a long time. Exhaustion had overcome him by the time he had gotten back to his hotel, and he’d blacked out as soon as his head hit the pillow. His dreams had been full of rain, scraps of memories from the day; Kabu’s face, brows drawn in concentration as water licked harshly at his skin; the man’s Ninetales, her graceful back arched in preparation for an attack, as resilient as her trainer; the fizzle of flames in the wet air. Raihan himself, light-heated with glee and high off the thrill of a battle, doing what he does best.

At some point the dream shifted, changing into a string of disconnected scenes of a younger Kabu, doing as he’d said in the restaurant: falling into the arms of strangers, sleeping with people to forget his own losses. Raihan can’t recollect much of the dream, only the barest suggestions of other people’s bodies – vague in the way that dream people often were – and the ways they might’ve touched Kabu’s; teeth and tongues, fingers clawed into supple young skin. Black hair gripped tight in demanding fists.

He wakes up hard, but he doesn’t do anything to alleviate the ache. Mostly because the rest of his body hurts enough to distract him, anyway, the exercise from yesterday taking its toll.

 _Damn, I’m out of shape_.

Rotom vibrates, signaling a text. He gestures for it to hover over his face as he reads, using talk-to-text to respond to his irate publicist:

 **UH OH** : It’s been quiet and you haven’t been updating your page – are up to trouble?

 **Me** : i’m an angel and did you seriously use an em dash in a text

 **UH OH** : I don’t believe you.

 **Me** : what kind of trouble could i get into anyway

 **UH OH** : I’m sure you’d find a way.

 **Me** : ye of little faith

 **UH OH** : Uh-huh. Anyway, possible news on the horizon – might not end up being anything, but I’ll keep you posted if things change.

 **Me** : scary!

 **UH OH** : I said *possibly*.

 **UH OH** : Anyway. Update your Galargram saying you’re in Motostoke. Fans in the area might like to know.

He doesn’t respond because he has no intention of doing that. As much as he adores his fans, this trip is about settling things between him and Kabu. He doesn’t quite see it as a romantic getaway or anything like that, but something about the state of them both…

For once, Raihan doesn’t share it all to the world. For once, he’s keen on a little bit of privacy.

*

Kabu’s house is detached, cozy-looking brick wonder at the end of the block in quiet, upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Motostoke. The whole thing is surrounded by trees taller than the house itself, with neatly kept yard boxed in by trimmed bushes. There are flowers growing by the front door, kept in neat little pots that Raihan gets a feeling can only be obtained in Turffield. Above the flowers are wind chimes, elegantly jingling in the breeze.

It’s like something out of a postcard. Raihan stops in front of the house to snap some pictures.

“Thanks, mate,” he tells the Corviknight carrying his fast taxi, slipping an extra tip into the pocket it carries around its neck. It caws happily before it takes off in a gust of wind and feathers.

Trying not to appear too giddy, he rings the doorbell and immediately jams his hands into his pockets.

Faintly, a voice from behind the door tells him it’s open.

The inside of the house is every bit as picturesque as the front: framed photos line the walls, the line of them occasionally interrupted by paintings. There’s a coatrack by the door, a stand for umbrellas, and an end table with an honest-to-God _landline_ perched serenely atop it as though that’s a thing people even have anymore.

“You,” he tells Kabu as he’s toeing off his shoes, “are a man stuck out of time.”

Kabu shrugs, though a small smile tugs at his lips. He’s wearing a pair of jogging shorts – _How many of those does he even have_ – and a worn, clearly well-loved t-shirt in a dark shade of red. There’s a towel slung over his shoulders, and his hair looks to be a little bit damp.

“Showered?”

“I run every morning,” Kabu says, turning around toward the kitchen. “You should try it.”

“Nah,” Raihan follows, languidly taking in the décor as he goes. “My body hates me this morning.”

A photograph on the wall catches his eye and he stops walking to peer hard at it: Kabu, many years younger – barely older than Raihan is now, it looks like – standing next to some dull-looking official on a stage. He guesses it might’ve been one of Motostoke’s old mayors, congratulating Kabu on furthering the reputation of the city. The context doesn’t matter so much as the sight of Kabu in his youth, his expression every bit as stern and flinty as it is nowadays – but his hair hasn’t greyed, and his body hasn’t filled out. He’s a slender little thing, barely coming up to the mayor’s shoulders…

He won’t say it out loud, but Kabu was _cute_.

A little dazed, he makes his way into the kitchen where Kabu stands in front of the stove. The Kabu of today isn’t cute so much as handsome, he thinks, a much hardier-looking man than he used to be. Raihan finds himself wondering when he got on the exercise kick, if it was a mid-life crisis that spurred it on.

Or maybe he got around to it after losing his seat, once he pulled himself out of the rut where he apparently slept with everything with a pulse.

Raihan steers his mind away, alarmed by how quickly his blood starts to race just thinking about it.

“You’re not too sore, I hope,” says Kabu, back to him.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, talking a turn around the kitchen. At his loft, Raihan’s got one of those variety pack spice racks that mostly just sits there for show, and the only appliance he has that he uses is his coffee machine. Kabu’s kitchen, in contrast, looks actually lived-in; bottles of spices, vinegars, oils, and pastes line his racks, all of them looking like they get used regularly. He’s got an impressive wine rack tucked into the corner of his counter by his kettle, and as Raihan watches him prepare their breakfast he sees him opening and closing well-stocked drawers and cupboards.

He’s struck with a sudden feeling of listlessness. And loneliness.

He leans his hip against the counter, watching over Kabu’s shoulder as he turns off the stove, chewing his lip as he thinks.

Kabu has a home; Raihan has a place he goes to sleep in when he’s not training.

“I can hear you thinking,” says Kabu, pulling bowls and plates out of one of the cupboards. “Here, take this to the table.”

He does. He’s not quite sure if there’s some special way he needs to be arranging them, so he just goes with what makes sense, and since Kabu doesn’t comment he assumes he’s doing it right.

“Just thinkin’ about how much homier your place is than mine,” says Raihan, taking the utensils from Kabu’s hand and settling them next to the plates. “I guess I just figured…”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know. You train a lot, everyone knows that…maybe I just thought it’d be a little emptier here.”

 _Guess that’s what I get for projecting_ , he thinks, a little perturbed at himself.

Kabu sets the food out onto the table: steamed rice, little bowls of pickled vegetables, soup, fish, and salad. A gentle stream of steam pours out of the spout of a pot of green tea, and Raihan takes in the mild smell of all of it, heat flooding his cheeks and his chest.

He doesn’t remember the last time someone’s made him a homemade breakfast. Maybe not since he lived at home with his parents.

He rubs at the back of his neck, his feelings a tangled knot in his belly: happy, sad, humbled.

They settle in to eat and Kabu’s rasping, mellow voice fills the warm, sun-drenched kitchen with its presence. Raihan feels buffeted from all sides with companionship, and the blunt, strange sensation of being beheld by someone else. It’s different from the battles in screaming stadiums, different from what he gets on social media.

He feels distinctly like he’s been starved for a long, long time. His hands almost want to shake with the revelation, but he calms himself by drinking the tea.

“Empty is one way to put it,” says Kabu, sipping from his spoon. The soup is very good. “I used to live in such a way – only training and only battling. It takes its toll, after a while.”

Raihan forgoes the spoon and brings the bowl straight to his mouth. Over the rim of the bowl, he sees Kabu shake his head in amusement.

“Good?”

“Really good,” he sets the bowl down, sighing in pleasure. “Thanks for this.”

“Any time.”

And Kabu means it, he knows. He’s not a man that doesn’t say what he doesn’t mean.

They divert to small talk while they eat, Raihan not feeling up to any emotional crises over breakfast. They talk about the new Champion, commiserating over everything her new role is going to entail; they talk about the incoming crush of challengers they can expect once the gyms open up again, and joke about taking another vacation after it’s over; they talk around the reason for Raihan’s visit, his expectations for today, because breakfast is somehow a sacred space, and those thoughts can come later.

After, belly full and satisfied, Raihan lounges on Kabu’s incredibly comfortable couch while Kabu goes outside to fetch his mail.

“How long have you lived here?” Raihan asks, leaning back with his hands behind his head, watching him sift through the paper mail in his fingers with a nostalgic sort of feeling. He’s even got a fresh newspaper in that bundle, and isn’t that just charming?

“Over thirty years, at this point,” says Kabu, sitting down next to him and setting the pile of rejects onto his coffee table. He reaches over and picks up the little glasses case he has nestled next to a small stack of hardcover books, popping it open to slip a nice pair of reading glasses onto his nose.

“Damn, Mr. Kabu,” Raihan murmurs. “Been here longer than I’ve been alive.”

Kabu snorts. “Don’t remind me,” he says, skimming through what looks like letter reminding him to renew his membership to –

“And don’t snoop,” he adds, tilting the paper away from Raihan’s prying eyes.

“Heh,” Raihan raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry.”

“What does your day look like, Raihan?” asks Kabu, still reading the letter. “What do you do for breakfast, what is your routine?”

“Uh,” Raihan stumbles. He’s not sure that he wants to reveal the intricacies of his boring, lonely life to a man who’s so assured and comfortable with himself. But he’s not one for lying, either. “I whip up something when I can, but most of the time I just skip breakfast. Or I grab something from the cafeteria at the stadium.”

Kabu raises a brow, glancing away from his letter at him for a moment.

“And then I’m either training or overseeing the training of my guys at the gym,” he continues. “Sometimes my publicist or manager will call me away to something. But otherwise, I’m pretty much working until it’s time to go home – maybe I’ll duck out early and hang out at the arcade or go shopping. Once in a while someone will call, and I’ll hang out…”

He’s being a bit generous to himself, with those last bits. It’s rare he goes anywhere, and the closest person he has to a friend that he likes to see out of stadium hours is Leon…and Leon is complicated.

From the way Kabu stops reading his letter and peers at him over the rim of his glasses, he gets the feeling Kabu sees right through it, too.

Folding the paper back up and setting it down onto the coffee table, Kabu sighs. “You should take care to not let training and work consume your life, especially not at your age.”

This time, Raihan snorts. “You sure you’re one to talk?”

“Yes,” Kabu crosses his arms. “I train hard, almost every day. But I also learned the value of a healthy balance in your life, and the value of being in good company.”

“Sure,” he’s heard this kind of thing thousands of times before; _work life balance_ , yadda yadda. The thing is, Raihan would sure like to ask all the Champions past and present how much balance _they_ have. He’s certain he knows the answer to that one.

 _Taking it easy doesn’t win Championships_ , he thinks, almost a little sour. _Not when people like Leon exist. Or the new girl_.

Raihan hasn’t given one whit about balance his whole life, and now the chance to beat Leon on the way to the Championship has been ripped from him forever. What would it matter, to change things now?

But he looks around at Kabu’s warm, welcoming house. There whole place is permeated by a feeling of peacefulness, and somehow, he finds himself envious.

“You didn’t come here for a lecture,” says Kabu, voice softening in sympathy. “But I can’t stress enough that sacrificing the prime of your life in pursuit of your goals…well. There are better ways to live.”

His mind goes back to the restaurant, where Kabu confessed about his darker days, how things had gone when he had lost everything.

“Yeah…”

Raihan sighs. The food warmed his belly, and the cozy couch at his back is a godsend for his sore body. He wants to hang onto how good he feels right now, and not get lost in thoughts that are only going to hurt him in their truth.

“I’ll think about it,” he ends up saying, giving Kabu a weak grin. “Old habits, y’know.”

Nodding, Kabu murmurs. “I do know.”

He really does look good with those glasses, all sagely and pensive. He says as much, because flirting is much steadier ground than baring his heart and his insecurities.

“I always thought they made me look old,” says Kabu, shaking his head. But he catches on, and goes with the subject change; gracious, and accommodating.

“Can’t deny that,” Raihan says, shrugging. “But I’d say…that’s probably part of the appeal…”

They both chuckle, watching each other. What went unsaid during breakfast rears its head now, that quiet, lingering knowledge of what they’ve agreed to, what today was supposed to be.

Raihan moves closer to him on the couch, leaning down for a kiss. Just a quick one, a reminder.

“Hm.”

To his surprise, Kabu’s hand moves to Raihan’s thigh as he’s pulling away, squeezing. He is warm as always, his grip strong and sure. Raihan watches the tendons move under his skin, swallows deeply at the thought of that grip all over the rest of him.

One of Raihan’s new favourite things about Kabu is that the man doesn’t linger – he quickly moves on once Raihan catches on, reaching over to cup his groin, rolling his palm over him with intent. That one moment at the party comes to mind as Raihan parts his thighs, granting him easier access; he remembers the harshness of the lights caught in Kabu’s silver hair as he stood between Raihan’s legs, lecturing him on dallying, and the drops of water drying on that expensive grey suit, the spare patch of skin he could see under his collar. Even now, he remembers the scent of that old cologne – older than Raihan himself – and he throbs at the recollection, and at the touch on him now, the continuation he’s been chasing for days.

“So not just breakfast today, huh?” he asks, a little breathless. They haven’t really started but excitement still steals the breath from him. It’s always like this, with someone new – and he’s been waiting on Kabu for a while, now. Raihan’s so tightly wound by now he could pop, he thinks.

Kabu moves himself off the couch, taking his time as he shuffles himself to kneel on the carpet between the wide spread of Raihan’s thighs, settling his forearms snug against them. He reaches up to take off the glasses, but Raihan stops him just as his fingertips graze the frames – “Wait,” he says, tries not to be embarrassed. “Can you…keep them on?”

The raised brow carries no judgement, only a touch of confusion. “Why?”

“I just...you look good.”

The hand falls away, leaving them be. “If you insist.”

And Kabu gets to work.

He tugs down Raihan’s shorts – “Move your hips – thank you.” – and leaving them bunched at his knees, pumping him to hardness with a practiced, confident hand. Raihan finds himself watching his face, the easy expression – though there’s a faint pinkening at the high points of his cheeks, a small flush of anticipation. He really is interested, attracted to the idea of sucking Raihan off.

With an unsteady breath, Raihan touches his shoulders and the slope of his back. He pets that firm body through the old shirt, to soothe and encourage, and thinks about how he can’t wait to get him naked.

Kabu deftly pushes at his foreskin, smears the wetness at the tip of his cock. He’s savoring, and Raihan never would have thought him the type for indulgence.

“What are you thinking about?” Raihan asks, biting the inside of his cheek. He tries not to buck into his hand because he doesn’t want to look impatient in the face of all Kabu’s age and experience. He’s a young buck, he knows, but he doesn’t want to make it so obvious.

“That it’s been a while since I’ve had an attractive young man in my house,” says Kabu, eyes going a little dazed as he watches his handwork, Raihan’s cock completely hard in his fist. Raihan desperately wants to snap a picture – but he knows that would be a terrible idea. He’ll just have to count on his own memory to keep the sight of this in his mind forever.

“I can come here whenever you want,” says Raihan, ready to make any promise if it means he can keep having this. God, they’ve barely done anything and he’s already so keyed up. “Just give the call. I can be quick about it, too.”

Kabu smiles, a small, private thing. Maybe he’s recalling past lovers, people as desperate for his touch as Raihan is now.

 _Tell me about them_ , thinks Raihan, burning with curiosity. _What are you like with other people? What are you gonna be like with me?_

His head drops down, jaw falling open as he takes Raihan into his mouth.

Leaning back into the couch, Raihan sighs in relief. He watches the shape of Kabu’s grey head through his lashes, inwardly praising the hollowing of his cheeks. It’s good – and it’s good _immediately_ , practiced and confident; Kabu gives him a particularly messy suck and Raihan moans, soft in his throat, bunching that old shirt tightly in his fingers.

Pulling off, slightly breathless, Kabu says: “I enjoy rough handling. You don’t have to be gentle.”

It’s all he needs, and so he takes a firm grip of Kabu’s head as he gets back to it. Slowly, he pushes his hips forward and watches the dazed look in Kabu’s eyes as he comes up against the back of his throat. A quiet groan reaches his ears, and Raihan starts panting earnest. It takes no time at all before he’s pulling back and then rocking forward again, fucking the man’s pliant, expert mouth with deep strokes.

The glasses are askew, one of the frames jammed up harshly against the heel of Raihan’s palm. That secretive little flush on his cheeks from earlier reddens his skin in full force, making his face ruddy and hot to look at; Raihan can’t keep his eyes off it, the way his cock nearly disappears into his puffy, wet mouth. And Kabu doesn’t close his eyes or look away, he watches Raihan right back despite the tears gathering at his waterlines – smugness creeps onto his face through the strain, his throat working tightly around Raihan’s cock like it’s a challenge.

Raihan’s moaning like it’s his first time all over again, messy and unbidden, and he can’t bring himself to care one bit. When he feels Kabu’s fingers nudge up under his balls, stroking and pushing with purpose, his legs tense almost painfully against the sides of Kabu’s small, hard body almost like a vise.

Breathing harshly through his nose, Kabu pushes himself deeper onto his prick, taking more than anyone else has ever taken, grunting with the strain.

When Raihan comes, he throws his head back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling in awe. Maybe even a little bit of fear.

“Oh my fuck, oh my _God_ –”

Kabu swallows it all before he pulls off him, letting Raihan’s suddenly weak hands fall away and drop uselessly onto the cushions. He pants for breath, head hung low and resting his forehead atop one of Raihan’s trembling thighs, the air going ragged in his used throat; he sounds like he did when he had finished his run on the track, back at the gym. Through his shuddering, perfect orgasm Raihan reaches out and runs his fingers through his hair.

With a grunt, he sits forward and trails his hands down to the back of Kabu’s neck, where the nape is damp with sweat. He traverses the bumps of his spine and drags his touch down, down the curve of his heaving back, his own body curled over the man’s head like a hulking giant, it feels like, because Kabu is even smaller like this, folded tightly into the shadow of Raihan’s body from down below. He reaches all the way down and pulls up the hem of his shirt up to his underarms, taking in the sight of his bare skin and the faint shine of sweat in the dip of his spine. His eyes linger on the band of his underwear peeking from atop his shorts, and then on the curve of his ass, and finally, on the vulnerable shape of his feet ensconced in his socks, tucked neatly under himself in kneeling.

 _I’m gonna eat him alive_ , he thinks, his thoughts so hungry they don’t even feel like his own. Like they came from somewhere else. He’s not even close to sated.

He hooks his hands under Kabu’s pits and drags the old man up onto the couch, flattening him on his back and nestling himself in between the tantalizing splay of his thick legs. The end of his shorts falls back and bunch up against his pelvis, baring the smooth, pale skin of his muscular thighs. There’s a satisfying tent pitched between them, and with a pleased rumble in his throat Raihan nuzzles it with his cheek.

“Please, please tell me you bottom,” he says. A hundred and one different wants vie for attention in his mind, all the ways he wants to fuck Kabu into a dazed little mess on every surface of his nicely kept house. Raihan knows what he likes best, but he can roll with whatever works for Kabu.

 _How’s this for good company?_ He thinks, almost viciously.

He looks up into the man’s face, catching his glazed eyes. The glasses have fallen off by now, lost somewhere on the carpet.

Raihan takes in the hard rise and fall of Kabu’s chest, his hand slipping up underneath the hole of his shorts and feeling him up through the cloth of his underwear. He thinks, _I’ll do anything you want, anything at all_ , knowing that if Kabu wants it, Raihan will beg. For all his pride and arrogance, Raihan isn’t above it, not right now.

Kabu nods, looking smug. “If you’d like.”

Raihan descends on him after that, and then there is no more talking.


	8. hungry wild things

It’s a great view from Kabu’s balcony.

His yard is several times bigger than the actual house, surrounded by tall trees that keep the whole property private – even sitting high up on the second floor, it’s tough to see the neighbors. His Pokémon have the run of the place, enjoying their day off from training; his Centiskorch is curled around the balcony railing, dozing peacefully while Ninetales chases Arcanine down below. Motostoke’s summer heat puts Hammerlocke’s to shame, and even without his shirt on Raihan is sweating. His beloved sweatshirt lies in a crumpled heap behind him, at the foot of the bed.

There’s a rumpled pack of cigarettes tucked under an ashtray between them on Kabu’s balcony table, Galarian Reds. It’s not a habit he would have figured someone like Kabu to have, and he mentions as much as he watches the man light one up with an ancient-looking zippo lighter.

“I used to smoke much more,” says Kabu, puffing and leaning back in his wicker chair. “Old habit from Hoenn. Now I only do so recreationally.”

Raihan grins. “You mean after sex.”

“After sex.” Kabu has the grace to chuckle at little at himself, and those lines of age deepen on his face.

Raihan takes a proffered cigarette and joins in, even if it’s not usually his thing (“ _When in Motostoke, do as the Motostokers do_ ”). He pops it between his lips and leans in for Kabu to light it for him. A few paces away, Centiskorch snores.

“Where’d you get this?” he gestures to the lighter.

Kabu sets it down onto the table; on its side is an engraving on it in a language Raihan can’t read, nearly worn down smooth from time and use.

“An old friend from Alola.”

It’s been two days of this: the two of them fucking and sharing pieces of themselves with each other, then leaving the house to train or eat before coming back and doing it all over again. Raihan hasn’t set foot in his hotel since the first night. The cleaning staff probably love him over there.

 _One hell of a vacation_ , he thinks, letting smoke curl languidly out of his mouth.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt so clear-headed and relaxed. It’s also been a long time since he’s stayed in someone’s company like this, for days on end and never getting bored or feeling the itch to scurry back to the gym. Raihan’s a social guy, but his days are marked by the solitude of training, the sound of sandstorms.

It’s fine, usually – his phone keeps him connected to the world outside the stadium.

 _But there’s something to this_ , he thinks, glancing over at Kabu. The man has forgone putting his clothes back on, opting for a deep red bathrobe that only barely covers the goods, draping open over one muscular leg. He never seems to take his socks off, even when they’re falling into bed, and Raihan’s teased him for it many times over the last two days.

His eyes trail down over the curvature of his firm calves, the high arch of his instep, thinking again and again: _There’s_ definitely _something to this._

There’s something to company, to sharing the same space as another person. To being caught by their eyes on a passing glance, which Kabu does – he looks at Raihan often, and Raihan looks back with smug satisfaction written all over his own face. He feels it, lets it run loose; away from the public eye they can check each other out and flirt as much as they please, something Raihan hadn’t even been aware that he wanted. The past week has been one revelation after another – some more muddled than others, some clear as water; Raihan wants company, Raihan wants attention, Raihan wants…

He doesn’t quite know what to think of it, the idea that he’s been more isolated than the thought. No one in his life ever thought to him that it should be different, but then again, the people in his life are people he works with. His closest friend would be Leon, and Leon is complicated.

Leon is a tangle of emotions and unrealized dreams and too much of Raihan’s sense of self. He can’t go there, anymore. He can’t think about it too much.

“You’re out of condoms, by the way,” he says, remembering that he’d fished the last one out of the box Kabu keeps in his nightstand drawer earlier this morning.

Kabu nods, flicks ash onto the ashtray between them – it’s shaped like a round plate being encircled by a little Centiskorch, clearly custom made. _Lovingly_ made, at that; the detail work is nothing short of astounding. Another well-loved trinket in Kabu’s home, another piece of history. Connection.

Raihan asks him about it.

“One of my neighbors is a ceramicist,” he explains, taking hold of it and tilting it this way and that. “She made this for me.”

“It’s cool,” Raihan kind of wants it, even if he doesn’t really smoke. Well, not cigarettes, anyway; he’s got a bong at home that’s got a Gastly’s face on it that Leon got for him as a joke for his birthday a couple of years back. “Your fans send you a lot of things?”

“Marguerite is a friend, not a fan,” Kabu clarifies, gently setting the ashtray down.

“A friend, huh,” Raihan grins. “ _That_ kind of friend?”

“She was widowed a few years ago, and has no interest in anything serious,” he gives Raihan a pointed look. “…But I do entertain her on occasion.”

Raihan gives him a leer in return. “You ‘entertain’ her like you entertain me?”

“You’re a fair bit more…energetic than she is,” Kabu laughs, “but yes. I would say so.”

Raihan takes a moment to stretch his legs out in front of him, letting his bones pop in his back. The cigarette dangles dangerously from his lips, mostly hanging out in his mouth rather than getting smoked. For once, he doesn’t feel like doing anything – training, going out, nothing. There’s a peaceful sort of clarity that comes from being unproductive that he’s sure he could get addicted to, given time; time to breathe, time to savour, time to _think_.

There’s a question rolling around in his head and he isn’t sure if he should ask it, if it would be rude to do so. But Kabu’s indulged him a lot so far, so why not?

“How often do you do this?” he gestures between the two of them. “Bring people over? ‘Entertaining’?”

Is he jealous? No, more like –

“Why so _fascinated_ by my love life?”

“You just seem…super professional. All the time.”

“That is on purpose.” Smoke streams out of Kabu’s nose as he leans his head back against his chair, glancing sideways at Raihan. His hands are clasped on his belly, cigarette poking out between two of his fingers, relaxed in a way Raihan never would’ve figured he was capable of.

Logically, Raihan knows Kabu can’t breathe fire. But he looks as though he _should_ – things would make more sense that way: the world spins, dragon types are the best, and Mr. Kabu breathes fire.

“What’s so bad about chilling out in front of the cameras?” asks Raihan. “Letting people get a lil’ peek at the man behind the badge?”

“Nothing, I just prefer some separation between work and personal life,” Kabu flicks some ash away. He’s gazing out into his yard now, watching his Ninetales roll around in the grass. Raihan badly wants to take a picture of him like this, with his hair all messed up from their romp in bed and capturing the way the loose collar of his robe is trying to droop and expose the risky skin underneath.

He can’t quite understand Kabu’s lifestyle; it would be impossible for him to keep himself away from his social media pages, shielding himself from the cameras and the fans. For all that he spends most of his time training, he still wants to be seen as approachable. Fun.

“It’s healthy to keep things separate,” Kabu continues. Down below, Arcanine and Ninetales wrestle with each other over the same ball toy. “Whatever goes wrong professionally, I can go home and be away from all of that. Letting the two bleed into each other tends to make a person miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“No, you are not,” Kabu concedes, though he does study Raihan with something akin to concern on his face. “But you aren’t content, either. You are restless and lost.”

Raihan snorts and takes a puff. “If I were content then I might as well just pack it all in and stop working. I’m _driven_ , y’know?”

“That is nonsense,” Kabu shakes his head. Tap, another column of ash tips into the tray. “Contentment is not the same as complacency,” he sighs, looking away, “and chasing your dreams shouldn’t leave you lonely and upset.”

“Who says I’m either of those things?”

“You. You have been, this whole time.”

The comment rankles, but he holds his tongue. He isn’t one for arguments, and besides…it isn’t as though Kabu doesn’t have a point. Admitting loneliness, though, feels pathetic and Raihan has never thought of himself as pathetic, and isn’t about to start now.

 _But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?_ he thinks to himself, in a nasty sort of voice that only barely belongs to him. _Because you’re lonely. And upset. And you don’t know what the hell to do about either, except to go chasing after scraps of bliss like a hungry wild thing that doesn’t know better._

Maybe if he hadn’t run into Kabu that first day after Leon’s defeat, quietly having breakfast at the café in Hammerlocke, he might have ended up chasing someone else, imprinting on the first familiar soul like a baby Psyduck. Who knows? His own mind is a mystery to him, sometimes.

The momentary spark of anger fizzles out of him, and he sinks back into the chair. He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray, only half smoked.

He sighs. “Maybe you’re right about that, old man.”

Kabu takes a drag. “I only impart lessons I’ve learned myself. That one was…hard-earned.”

Raihan throws a somber little smile his way, recalling their conversation at the restaurant – Kabu, laying bare the most tender, fragile period in his life. “Like what to do when you’ve lost your seat, yeah?”

Nodding, Kabu reaches down and absently pulls his robe tighter around himself. The damn thing doesn’t fit too well, wanting to fall open all the time.

“Sleeping around isn’t so bad,” says Raihan, trying to be comforting. He’s not good at this, either. He’s starting to wonder what he _is_ good at, outside of battling and being an almost-Champion. “S’not like you went on a crime spree or something.”

_God, when did I get so depressing?_

Kabu chuckles. “Sleeping around, no,” he says. “But using people, breaking hearts…trying to feel powerful at the expense of others… _that_ I am not proud of.”

“Ah.”

_“Why so fascinated by my love life?”_

Maybe that’s why Raihan’s so fixated by it – Kabu, hurting himself by hurting others. Sure, there’s the pleasant images his mind conjures up: Kabu, young and lean – still a sparking, arrogant hothead – getting folded in half by large, arrogant men; flushed with pleasure, gasping for it in that simmering, quiet way he does (because Raihan’s learned by now that the man isn’t loud in bed, not like Raihan is, and that every sound he makes is a mark of a job well done) and letting himself be completely at their mercy.

But really, it’s about knowing that someone else had been brought low and picked himself back up again. Because maybe it means that Raihan can too, that Raihan can come back from this.

And Kabu doesn’t speak of it with any trace of pain. It’s well and truly in the past for him, a wound long healed. Not a scar in sight.

Which allows Raihan the freedom to ask, voice husky: “What was your worst offence?”

They’ve gotten personal in every way since he came here. What’s a little more? Besides, he’s looking at the man’s profile in the hot afternoon sun, the way sweat gleams on his throat and collarbones, and feels like he’s on his way to round 2. Maybe it’s just the bathrobe that’s done him in.

It’s a dark train of thought, a little bit shameful, but he’s feeling better about his chances at pulling himself back out, later. A healing has begun, somewhere inside of him. He might as well play with the scabs.

Kabu crushes the cigarette into the ashtray. He murmurs, “We will need to pick up more condoms.”

*

He thinks of it again, later, when he has Kabu riding his lap.

“H-hey,” he says, gripping the man’s hips and bucking up hard enough to make the bed springs squeal. It’s a very good mattress, so that’s truly a feat. “Come on, tell me: who was your riskiest lay?”

Strong, hard thighs tighten at Raihan’s sides, squeezing. Kabu settles his hands onto his shoulders, clenching tight enough to hurt. “Your curiosity is bordering on a fetish,” he doesn’t sound mad though, panting and flushing at the cheeks.

Raihan groans, watching Kabu slide back down, slow. “At this point? Fuck, probably. Who knows anymore?”

Wrapping his arms tightly around him, Raihan dips his head down to suck on his neck. Summer nights are hot in Motostoke, and the two of them are sweating like mad.

“So tell me about it,” he murmurs against warm, damp skin as he turns them both around, putting Kabu onto his back and hovering over him like a hungry animal.

One of his hands settles onto Raihan’s hip, fingers digging into it like he’s clinging on for dear life; the other hooks under his own knee and pulls, spreading himself wide. His eyes, hooded and dark, bore into Raihan’s without trace of embarrassment.

“Married woman,” says Kabu, sighing. A shiver runs up Raihan’s back – pleasurable, shameful. “Sometime after I lost my seat. I met her in a pub, and she took me home behind her husband’s back. I knew it, too. She still wore her ring.”

“That was fucking bad of you,” Raihan says, his voice hoarse. That poor woman. He sends an apology out to her, wherever she is now, for using her memory like this.

He bottoms out, rolling his hips against Kabu’s in a harsh, punishing grind. He doesn’t want to think too hard about it, about how much the confession turns him on.

“It was,” Kabu agrees. “And would you like to know what happened after?”

“What?”

The hand on his hip slides up to his neck, holding tight. Not enough to choke him, but close enough that it makes his heart start to hammer in his chest. There’s a little flare of panic in his chest at the sensation, but it’s chased by a furious, wild arousal so sharp he thinks he might go mad.

“I slept with her husband.” Kabu says, groaning at Raihan’s thrust and throwing his head back, a challenge writ all over his face. Maybe he’s testing Raihan, seeing how far he wants to take it before he judges the man too terribly and leaves. Maybe he’s seeing just how messed up the young man he’s taken into bed really is.

It doesn’t matter. They don’t talk anymore after that, because Raihan fucks him in earnest and comes harder than he ever has in his life.

*

“What happened to them?” Raihan asks, later, when the haze has cleared. Kabu is coming out from his shower, drying off his hair with a towel. There are bite marks all over him, signs of an overeager young pup who can barely control himself – Raihan figures he should have the grace to be abashed, but all he can feel when he looks over Kabu’s body is a small burn of pride.

“The husband and wife?”

“Yeah.”

Kabu tosses the towel onto the bed, and comes to sit next to him; for such a small man, he’s very heavy, dipping the mattress more than even Raihan is.

“I don’t know,” he answers, eventually. “It was a long time ago.”

“Damn.”

“I look at that part of my past with shame, Raihan,” says Kabu.

“You sure?” Raihan tongues at the point of his tooth, thinking. Reminiscing. “You didn’t seem all that shamed when you were telling me, you know.”

 _You looked like smug bastard_ , he thinks. Doesn’t dare say it aloud.

“The man who behaved that way is still a part of me. The only difference is that now, I try to be better than him,” Kabu plucks a fresh pair of shorts and underwear off the neat pile of clothes he’d set aside from himself and shimmies into them. His face is earnest, his voice gentle. “And besides, much of that was for your benefit.”

“Mine?”

Kabu shrugs. “Indulging a handsome young man is hardly any effort.”

Raihan snorts, feeling flattered. “Back at the induction party, in the loo – was that you being ‘indulgent’, too?”

Kabu clears his throat, and finally he actually looks _embarrassed_. “That was…a slip.”

“A damn surprising one.”

“I took a lot of risks when I was younger,” says Kabu, pulling on a shirt, “and sometimes we forget ourselves in the heat of the moment.”

Raihan thinks that he would’ve liked to have met that Kabu, but he doesn’t mention it. He likes the Kabu in front of him very much, the one who’s come out of all of his experience with life still eager to tackle more. This Kabu is better for all of his younger self’s mistakes and failures.

Maybe, Raihan finally finds himself thinking, just maybe Raihan can get there too, someday.


	9. soju

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a quiet one

They take a cramped fast taxi to the Hulbury the next morning.

“Thinking of challenging Nessa?” Raihan had asked earlier, leaning against Kabu’s kitchen countertop as the man himself rifled through his cabinets in search of something. He had a vague remembrance that Kabu did go to challenge Nessa sometimes, as part of his crazy training regimen; as far as he knew Kabu never won, because type advantages were _advantages_ for a reason.

“Not today,” Kabu had said. He packed a small selection of spices into a small bag. “I enjoy the fish from Hulbury. Sometimes the three of us have lunch.”

“Three?”

“Including Milo. He grows very nice herbs in his garden, perfect for fish.”

He hadn’t known that they spent much time together, recreationally. But then again, Raihan was coming to learn these days that he was the only leader without much of a social life.

And so they packed and made their way to Hulbury, where Nessa had waited on the front steps of her house, a basket covered in cloth hooked around her elbow, phone clutched in her grip. She had waved, bright blue fingernails gleaming in the sunlight. Her eyes had caught his and widened in curiosity.

“ _Raihan_?” she’d looked astonished to see him.

“I hope Hulbury’s fish lives up to the hype,” he’d said in turn, winking.

Now, they are on their way to Turffield. The two towns are close enough that they can rent a car to make the trip – Kabu is at the wheel, playing some classic radio station that plays nothing Raihan recognizes. Nessa sits in the passenger seat, and Raihan is seated alone in the back, legs spread wide to find some comfort in the car’s cramped space. Kabu and Nessa talk like longtime friends, despite how little they seem to have in common, or the wide gap in their ages; Raihan can’t shake the feeling that he’s been missing out, though he’s never had much of an interest in his fellow gym leaders before now. 

“You never told me you all hang out like this,” he says to Nessa, absently thumbing through his socials. He gives the back of her seat a pointed nudge with his knee. “Why am I never invited?”

She snorts, softly. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” the weather out here is too warm, and he’s overheating in his sweatshirt. Kabu’s music is _awful_ , and the signal on the road is so weak it’s making Galargram feed chug along so slowly it gets on his nerves.

He hopes the fish is worth it. He’s already missing the luxurious cushions of Kabu’s couch.

“Did Kabu have to _drag_ you out?” Nessa chuckles to herself, before clicking off her phone and turning around in her seat to peer at him. “Come to think of it, since when do _you two_ hang out?”

He glances over at Kabu, then at the rearview mirror at the man’s face. His expression is impassive as always, focused on driving. Raihan wonders just how well Nessa and Milo really know him – _we’ve been hooking up actually, and wow, did you know Mr. Kabu really got around back in the day?_ – and decides that it’s not really her business, and certainly not his place to start informing her of such things.

“Recent thing,” he says, in place of anything substantial. “We ran into each other in Hammerlocke, figured it’d be cool to catch up.”

“Huh.”

He watches as she looks over at Kabu in the corner of her eye. They might not be close friends, but Nessa isn’t stupid.

Kabu simply hums in his throat. He drives with one hand on the wheel, while the other rests casually atop the gear lever. The compression shirt is at home today, and Raihan enjoys the sight of his bare arms, firm with muscle, and getting progressively more tan the longer they roam about in the bright morning sun.

Nessa catches him ogling, and then they are staring each other down.

“Motostoke’s nice this time of year,” Raihan says, with a straight face. “Really warm.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Been getting sweaty. Just _hot_ , you know? And _slick_ –”

She levels him an absolutely withering look as she pointed turns back around in her seat, clicking her phone back on. In the rearview mirror, Kabu’s eyes flick up to catch his – and Raihan shrugs, grinning unrepentantly.

“Anyway,” he tries to get the conversation back on track. There’s only so many innuendos to be had before he might get slapped. “It’s cool that you guys do this. Anybody else show up?”

“No,” Nessa responds, fishing around in her purse and popping a mint. “We like to keep it to us three for this, usually.”

“Ooh, _exclusive_. I like it.”

Nessa shrugs. Her hair gracefully falls off the slope of her narrow little shoulder like a scene out of one of her adverts. “We’re the first three of the League challenge,” she says simply. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Kabu chuckles, shaking his head. A song older than Raihan and Nessa combined streams quietly from the radio at his side.

“Oh, come on,” Raihan tells her, looking affronted. “Try me.”

“Try _this_ ,” she starts, her nose wrinkling. “The only challengers you ever battle are the ones who take it seriously enough to get there. Us? We weed out the _not_ serious ones, so _you_ never have to deal with them. You’re welcome, by the way. It’s super traumatic.”

She sniffs, then looks back down at her phone and types away. Raihan always knew Nessa was competitive – nearly everyone in the League _was_ – but he hadn’t realized how deep it ran for her. She looked genuinely salty about the state of things, and Raihan couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response.

_Guess that’s the view from the top in a nutshell_ , he thinks. _You miss a lot from where you are_.

“It isn’t Raihan’s fault,” says Kabu, his serene voice putting out the fire that was threatening to start. “It comes with the deal. The League is structured this way everywhere.”

Nessa hums, fingernails clacking on the screen. She’s already calming, her temper quick to start and yet quicker to simmer. She pats the basket down by her feet, giggling. “And that’s why we have soju.”

*

He’s only been to Turffield a handful of times, and for most of his visits he would complain about the brightness and the heat and the _nothing_. Raihan’s a city boy, much more at home swallowed up by shadows cast from tall buildings, buffeted from all sides by noise and industry. The fresh air here is nice, but he finds the quietness eerie – cities never left you alone, in that regard; it doesn’t feel right without the noises of others living their lives in the distance, of machines whirring and clanging and screeching.

The quietest place in Hammerlocke is deep in the sanctuary of the stadium, among the murals. It’s nearly silent in there, but the space always feels alive with history. It’s a different sort of quiet. He feels a sense of belonging in there, that he is a piece of the grand scheme of the universe, another witness to Galar’s vast and wonderous history.

Here, he just feels dreadfully out of place. And he’s pretty sure he’s allergic to the grass.

“ _Achoo!_ ”

“Oh my God,” Nessa laughs. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a travel-sized packet of tissues. “Welcome to the country, loser.”

“Thanks,” he takes it gratefully, blowing his nose and tossing it out in a nearby bin as they walk. 

“You need to go outside more,” says Kabu, a few paces ahead of them.

“I do!” Raihan rolls his eyes. “I spend half my time in Wyndon, I’ll have you know.”

“Indoors, probably,” Nessa snorts, and then pinches his sleeve. “Shopping and taking thirst traps in dressing rooms doesn’t count.”

“Do you bully Milo this much?” he throws his arm over her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake. “Or am I just lucky? Don’t tell me you’re hot for me, girl, because I wouldn’t want to have to turn you down.”

“Do you hear yourself when you speak?” She sighs. “Also, as if you would turn me down.”

“Probably not.”

They poke and jibe at each other the whole walk like a pair of bickering kids following at Kabu’s heels, until they hit the street market. 

He really does love shopping…

Nessa must catch the longing look in his eye, because she says, “Have a look around. We’ll meet you at Milo’s.”

“Thanks,” he says absently, already parting from her and heading toward the stand full of battle aids. “Don’t break open the soju without me!”

Kabu and Nessa go on ahead, chuckling at him.

There’s a lot of things out in the country that a guy just can’t find in the city, not even in Wyndon. He picks up some incense and charms, thinking about battle strategies and skill augmentation. There are always ways to get better, always more things to learn.

He stops by a stand covered in all sorts of handmade crafts: ceramics, quilting, and wind chimes. It’s the chimes that catch his eye, glinting silver in the sunlight. He thinks of the ones he’s seen on Kabu’s front porch, and that familiar urge to buy things for him has him pulling out his wallet before he’s even really aware of it happening.

“Give me that one,” he tells the merchant, pointing at one with a bright red base. It’s made of hand-carved wood, sealed in glaze. It sways gently in the breeze, its sound like water streaming in a brook.

It’s a calming sound, and Raihan can’t help but think that it suits Kabu very much.

The merchant wraps it carefully in tissue paper, and then again in a cloth, before placing the whole thing in bag and handing it over with a smile of gratitude. Raihan places carefully in the bottom of his bag. He’ll give it to Kabu when they’re back in Motostoke, in the comfort of the man’s house.

*

If Milo is surprised to see Raihan joining their little party, he makes no mention of it. Raihan’s always thought the guy to be somewhat spacey, but he finds himself appreciating the grass trainer’s mellow, accepting energy. It’s very difficult to feel anything but a comfortable inner peace around Milo.

Kabu takes care of cooking the fish, while Milo helps out with chopping herbs and ingredient prep. Nessa contributes by washing dishes as they come, and Raihan adamantly refuses to get in the way of anything.

“Freeloader,” says Nessa, drying off a stirring spoon with a towel.

“Me and kitchens don’t mix,” he retorts, leaning against Milo’s kitchen table.

Milo’s cottage is in the heart of Turffield, with a yard twice as large as the house itself. He got a peak at the man’s garden in the back when he arrived, at the array of trellises and coops and all manner of green, nature-y things that Raihan couldn’t really comprehend. Even inside, potted plants occupied every available space, infusing the place with so much _life_.

Raihan had a small, potted cactus plant once – someone had given it to him as a gift for moving out of his parents’ house. He’d overwatered it within the week. 

“It’s all right,” quips Milo. “I don’t think my kitchen is big enough for all of us, anyway. Make yourself at home, Raihan.”

“Thanks, though I’m kind of worried your plants will start growing all over me.”

That gets him a sunny laugh in return, and he feels vaguely proud.

When the trio finish, the house smells of mouth-watering fish. They elect to eat outside, since it’s such a nice day, and Raihan pulls his weight by setting up the tablecloth and utensils on Milo’s yard table. The plate with the enormous grilled fish sits in the center like a delicious set-piece.

They pour the soju and clink their glasses in cheers. It’s a little early in the day, but they’re on vacation.

“Oh my God,” says Raihan, taking a bite of the fish. “I take back everything. Hulbury _wins_.”

Nessa looks smug, “This is going to ruin you for seafood anywhere else.”

“Compliments to the chef, as always,” Milo smiles, clinking glasses with Kabu.

“Thank you.” He takes his first bite, considering. “Hm…more seasoning, next time.”

“Well, _I_ think it’s perfect,” Raihan’s mouth is full of bliss and victory. Fishy perfection. “I think _you’re_ perfect.”

Kabu huffs an indulgent little laugh.

They take their time eating, mostly talking and catching up, trading stories and thoughts. Mostly, they talk about the state of things now that there’s a new Champion, about witnessing the end of Leon’s reign, and what that might mean for the future. Raihan braces himself for the sting, wary of his own head and how the mention of Leon might turn him into a downer for the rest of the day…but it doesn’t come. He feels okay, and somehow _that_ feels momentous. Unbelievable.

His cheeks flush with alcohol, his belly warms with whatever the soup is that Kabu made to accompany the meal. There’s bits of tofu in it, he knows that much.

Across from him, Kabu and Milo talk about what they expect from the challengers in the coming weeks, once the gyms open again. On his right, Nessa digs into a salad with one hand, her phone clutched in the other. 

Raihan takes another sip of his drink and nudges Kabu’s shin with his foot under the table. The disapproving look thrown his way is worth it, and he winks.

Rotom buzzes right after and flies up to his face.

**NESS** : don’t harass kabu.

At his side, Nessa’s face is impassive as she scrolls through her socials with her thumb. As Milo goes on a story tangent to Kabu about a challenger he’d faced once that mainlined a team of six Toxtricitys, Raihan leans in close to her, whispers, “Don’t be jealous, love.”

“Please,” she rolls her eyes. “You’re so not my type.”

“I’m everyone’s type.”

She laughs.

“Hey,” she says, calming. Her whisper is secretive, quiet so the others can’t hear. “Are you actually hooking up with…?” she tilts her head toward Kabu, who is intently talking about the state of rocking monotype teams on a pro level.

“Maybe,” he starts, but finds he can’t quite keep up the pretense of keeping it a mystery. Maybe it’s the meal making him comfortable, or maybe he kind of wants someone to know. He’s a braggart in all things, he knows, and Kabu’s a catch. “…Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Wow,” she drags the word out, looking dazed. “Is –”

She stops, glancing warily across the table, before leaning even closer. “Is he good?”

Raihan nearly barks with laugher but he manages to keep it locked down tight. He cups his hand around his mouth and says right into her ear: “I haven’t left his house in almost a week.”

“God,” she shakes her head, earrings bouncing against her fine jaw. “You’re too much.”

But she pointedly pours herself more soju and raises her glass to him, and he raises his in return with a grin.

“To slutting it up,” she whispers.

“To slutting it up,” he echoes, and they clink their glasses with a solemn nod right before they break down into wheezing laughter, tipsy and wildly happy, clutching at each other’s shoulders and nearly falling off their chairs. 

_This is almost as good as battling_ , he thinks, turning to the look at the sky when he calms down, where the sun is lowering in the horizon. It’s nearly sunset, the evening just around the corner, and Raihan takes a deep breath of fresh air. For a moment it feels like the world has paused, like his cares have gone away to give him a reprieve, and he raises his glass a second time to no one in particular – the air, perhaps, or the sun, or the rolling hills of Turffield all around them – and sends his thanks.


	10. hail to the hero

They get back to Kabu’s house late in the night, stumbling through the threshold slightly tipsy. Kabu barely sets down his pack of spices on the floor before Raihan is on him, tongue in his mouth, hands up his shirt. He murmurs against the man’s lips, “Fuck me tonight.”

Kabu hums and slips his hand down the back of Raihan’s shorts, squeezing firmly at his ass, kneading the flesh with his strong, assertive grip. His skin is rough from work and age, and Raihan groans at the touch.

“ _Definitely_ fuck me tonight,” he sighs, breaking away to bear his throat, where Kabu peppers hot, sucking kisses down on his skin, free hand rucking up the bottom of Raihan’s shirt to his chin. He laves his tongue against a nipple, and Raihan’s chest jumps at the touch. 

“I thought you didn’t like it that way,” says Kabu, voice low. He’s leading them upstairs, somehow guiding them without them tripping all over each other, and Raihan goes with his flow, the easiest thing he’s ever done in his life, it feels like.

They do fumble with the knob of Kabu’s bedroom door, nearly stumbling inside in anticipation. But they gather themselves well enough to make it to the bed.

“I like it sometimes,” says Raihan, as he gets pushed down onto the mattress. “Like tonight. I want it bad.”

He’s in a mood, feeling high and happy like he hasn’t been in a long time. He wants to lie back and enjoy some attention, to let someone else take the wheel.

“I can do that,” Kabu says, and Raihan realizes he said that last part aloud. He snickers at himself, watching as Kabu peels off his own shirt, muscles tensing with every movement. It’s easy to spread his legs at the sight of him, and Kabu descends on him with a wise little grin – practiced, and patient. A steady pillar of calm for him, this past week. 

Raihan goes along for the ride, moaning open-mouthed into the man’s pillow. Head spinning and alive with bliss, he thinks he might have laughed, too.

*

Kabu lets him sleep in when morning comes, going downstairs to make breakfast and answer work e-mails while Raihan lounges in bed and soaks in the sun streaming through his big balcony window.

Eventually, he does get up because Rotom buzzes with a call from his publicist. 

“You haven’t been taking pictures,” she says in lieu of a greeting. Genuine curiosity infuses her tone, and Raihan can picture the raised brow on the other line. “No status updates either? Not a _single hashtag_?”

“A guy’s gotta have layers,” he chuckles, putting the phone on speaker and letting Rotom float around his head as he stands, clad in nothing but his underwear. He takes a moment to stretch luxuriously, popping bones. “There’s more to me than Galargram and really sexy selfies, you know.”

“Is there?”

“Hey!”

“Yes, okay,” she waves him off. He can see her doing it in his mind’s eye, ever-immaculate manicure catching sunlight. “I _am_ glad to hear you’re taking a real vacation, you know.”

“I knew you cared, Ms Scary Publicist Lady.”

He walks around the room, taking the chance to snoop through the old man’s things. Kabu’s got a small shelf tucked in the corner of his bedroom, and Raihan crouches down to look at the framed photos. There are some old ones of Kabu standing next to a man and a woman who look remarkably like him, posed amidst a backdrop that looks like nowhere in Galar – Hoenn, if Raihan were to guess. The architecture points to that region. Maybe Kabu’s got siblings back home? As far as Raihan knows, he’s here without family.

_Sounds lonely_ , he thinks. _Maybe it’s why he’s all gung-ho for socializing_.

A photo of a very small Sizzlipede, sleeping in a ball nestled in someone’s hand. A landscape shot of yet another place not in Galar, looking out into the ocean crested by mountains in the distance. Or a volcano?

“Anyway,” his publicist clears her throat. “Things are wrapping up on the administrative side, so you should think about heading back soon.”

Raihan releases a steady breath before standing and heading over to poke around in Kabu’s closet. Mostly he finds athletic wear, _lots_ of it. Barely any casual clothes to speak of. There’s a small shelf inside the closet that appears to be just for his _socks_.

“Damn,” he mutters. “And here I was starting to get really into this ‘taking it easy’ thing. You sure we can’t keep it going? Maybe you guys can do your paperwork _really_ slowly.”

That’s partly a lie: he’s missed battling every single day he’s been away from the stadium. But even a workaholic like him can’t deny doing nothing for days on end is good in its own way. He feels fired up, invigorated; when he gets back to Hammerlocke, lord help the bevy of new challengers who drop by his gym.

On the rack, neatly tucked away in an enormous plastic cover, is the suit Raihan had bought for Kabu. He brushes his fingers against the clear plastic, feeling along the seams of the sleeves; there isn’t a single wrinkle that he can see, and the whole thing is still pressed to perfection. Raihan’s own suit from the induction party is probably still in a pile at the foot of his bed back home, if the cleaning lady hasn’t already picked it up. He’s probably never going to wear it again, regardless.

“I called you for another reason,” says his publicist, bringing his mind back to earth. Outside the bedroom window, he hears chirping. The distant rumble of a car.

“Oh?”

“Told you there was possible news, remember?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well…” she takes a breath. “It’s about Leon,” she says. The name brings him to attention, and Raihan braces himself. His hand drops to his side, and he turns to stare right into Rotom’s receiver.

“You’re makin’ me really nervous here.”

“He’s making a bid for chairman.”

It wasn’t at all what he was expecting. It didn’t seem real. _Chairman_? It was laughable; ridiculous and unthinkable. Leon was a trainer, not suited up businessman! He even says as much, the words jumbling together in his rush to get them out. Shock makes him lose all charm.

“You’d think so,” she says. “But he’s getting support. People are as fired up about the Rose ordeal as he is, you know. Lots of people are thinking about the future – making a difference, all that good billboard-worthy stuff.”

Raihan walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. It’s perfectly made, because Kabu doesn’t abide sloppiness. 

He conjures up an image in his mind: Leon standing on the pitch of a stadium, crowd roaring – but the cape is gone, the League-issued gym wear is gone. His hands are bare, with no gloves to give him grip for the sleek surface of a ball, and instead he’s clutching a mic; his cheerful voice, the voice that inspired millions of kids throughout the years, booms on the speakers. He announces the match…and disappears.

He wonders if it’s wrong to feel so betrayed.

“Talk to me,” his publicist’s sharp voice cuts through his reverie. “I feel like I’m losing you.”

“I think it’s dumb as hell,” says Raihan. “Just absolutely stupid.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s a _trainer_ – not some…some…” he waves his hands around, grasping for the right word. He doesn’t find one, not one strong enough to get across how he feels about it, so he lets his hands drop with a fleshy _thunk_ on his thigh and sighs, guttural and frustrated. “Ugh. He should be battling.”

_He should still be Champion_.

“There’s no reason for him to stop battling,” she responds. Reasonable. Not irrationally tugged around by emotions that aren’t her right to feel, as he is. “It just…won’t be in an official capacity anymore.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Oh God,” she groans. “Listen, I’m not doing this with you. Be salty all you want – I am just giving you the heads up. It’ll be circling around the League circuits soon enough anyway, and you’re probably going to be asked about it in interviews. Do some thinking about whether or not you intend to throw in your support and prepare a statement just in case.”

That was a dumb thing to say. Of course, Raihan was going to support him – for all the turmoil Raihan feels, Leon is still his _friend_.

_I don’t get it_ , he thinks. _I’ll never fucking get it – but what else can I do_?

There isn’t anything else to do – and this was never, ever about Raihan.

“What do you think of it?” he asks, curious about her perspective. Raihan doesn’t ever deal with League business on that side of things – how does it look over there? The administration building must have gone wild with the news.

“I think…it’s an interesting move,” she eventually says. “He’s earnest, and popular. Once it goes public, he’s going to have a lot of support on his side – and that’s precisely why the board of directors is pissed. They want a seasoned businessman on the mantle, not some 20-something jock fresh off the pitch.

“But that’s just the thing: his goals are going resonate with people _strongly_ ,” she continues. “After everything with Rose…well, everyone’s eager for a different sort of leadership. The League lost a lot of public support after Rose, and the international League association’s been talking about doing an investigation. It’s tense over here. So even if it’s not Leon, the next Chairman won’t be suit, that’s for certain.”

“What kind of goals?” he can’t quite envision what sorts of promises Leon is going to make as chairman. The whole thing was just steeped in the sort of nonsense politics and underhanded schmoozing that Raihan tries his best to avoid whenever he can. Why bother with all of that, when the rush of a good battle is all that he needs? It’s the most honest thing in the world, facing up against someone else’s Pokémon with your own, putting your resolve to the test, seeing the fruits of all your labour, your training.

“Changing the League from the ground up, prioritizing the ‘spirit of the challenge’ rather than looking out for corporate interests. That kind of thing. It’s attractive. It’s super _vague_ and absolutely no one has any clue as to how that’s going to even happen…but it’s attractive.”

“That sounds impossible to pull off,” he says, voice dry. Rose was successful because Rose was shrewd and smart. Also a bad person, underneath it all. Leon is simply too good a person to be in charge, he thinks.

Raihan says as much, albeit in a much nicer way.

“His business sense is as bad as his sense of direction, yeah,” she says, though she sounds almost reluctant to agree. “And he’s got big shoes to fill. Rose’s leadership put Galar’s League on the global stage…”

He remembers. In a few short years, Galar went from being one of the minor global divisions to an international leader – few other countries boasted filled stadiums for their battles, or League leaders with salaries and reputations like theirs. A lot of it had come down to the discovery of dynamax, sure, but it would have been naïve not to attribute credit to Rose’s keen business sense.

“Leon’s not going to be able to compete on that front,” she continued. “But…as I said. Maybe it’s time we start thinking out of the box…and who’s to say that just because the old ways work, we have to stick to it?”

He grunts.

“Come on,” she chuckles. “It all sounds super romantic, doesn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he rolls his eyes, but he finds himself chuckling too. “Like some old Galarian, chivalric play. Hail to the hero.”

Most of those ended in tragedies, but he doesn’t go there.

“Are you going to support him?” she asks, eventually. Her tone doesn’t bely how she feels about that. After all, she works for him; she would go with whatever course he chose.

Raihan swallows.

“Yeah.”

_This is it_ , he thinks. _This is the end of it all_. He’d been living in a state of limbo this whole week, he knows, not quite accepting the new reality, maybe even entertaining the idea that it was all a dream – or that things could somehow, miraculously, go back to the way they were.

But this was it: the start of a new era, and the end of this path for Raihan. He has no choice now, because the world was moving on without him, and he loathes the thought of being left behind. He remembers what Kabu said to him the first day they had breakfast together – _“It isn’t too late to shape yourself around another goal.”_ – and thinks that it’s time he stops feeling sorry for himself. If Leon could lose the crown and pick himself back up to shoot for something even higher, than what’s Raihan’s excuse?

“Yeah,” he says again, clearer. Firmer. “I’ve got Leon’s back. Always will.”

*

As he comes down the stairs, the smell of breakfast greets his nose. He stills at the sight of Kabu’s sturdy, small back against the creamy kitchen counters, a scene that fills him with sense of comfort. Absently, he calls Rotom to him to take a picture. It’s not the sort of photo that has a place in his socials, but he wants to capture it anyway. He wants to keep something of this, now that the week is over, and everything’s slated to go back to normal. He might not be back here for a long, long while.

“Hey,” he says, coming to stand beside him.

“Good morning,” Kabu says, glancing up at him. His hair is messy this morning, sticking up like it used to in his youth. “You sounded agitated upstairs. Everything all right?”

Raihan hums, leaning down to set his lips against the top of Kabu’s head. Not quite a kiss, but fond nonetheless. He likes the way the man smells, the sensation of his hair against his mouth.

“It’s going to be, I think,” he murmurs. “Hopefully.”

He backs away and Kabu hands him some bowls to the bring to the table.

They eat, and Raihan doesn’t mention the news. Everyone will find out at some point anyway, and Raihan wants his last few moments here to be theirs. He’s earned that much, he thinks.

*

The afternoon comes, and it’s time to leave. He’s got a few days of work to catch up on before the gym officially re-opens, and he knows he’s going to need the head start. It’s the same for Kabu, for all of them. The days ahead will be filled with would-be Champions, hopefuls of the new era; as a leader, he owes it to them to do his best.

They part at Kabu’s front door, and it’s a beautiful morning for a farewell. Not a big production, no dramatics – just two people who found some time for each other.

“Next time you’re in Hammerlocke,” Raihan says, smiling. “Give me a call. I mean it, I’ll drop everything.”

Kabu chuckles, his eyes closing. He looks handsome like that, and Raihan quietly wishes the trip weren’t over so soon. He comes close and slides his hand around behind Kabu’s neck, fingers playing with his neatly trimmed hairline at the back of his head and leans down for a kiss. There’s no rushing this time, no risk of paparazzi or people with smartphones to send pictures to the tabloids. There’s no sound for miles but the breeze gliding through grass, the windchimes on Kabu’s porch jingling faintly at their push. Kabu tastes like coffee, and Raihan sighs against his mouth.

He feels immeasurably grateful, somehow.

“Thanks for…well,” he pulls back, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. “Guess ‘thanks for the sex’ would be pretty tacky.”

“It would be.”

“So thanks for having me over, and taking me out of my own head for a while,” he says, instead. Then he winks. “ _And_ the sex.”

Kabu shakes his head, though he grins. It’s crooked, and makes lines deepen on his handsome face. “Anytime you like, Raihan. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Be seeing you.”

“Take care.”

They wave at each other and Kabu disappears back into his warm, cozy house, quietly closing the door behind him.

Raihan takes a deep breath before setting off down the steps of Kabu’s porch, heading for the pickup spot where his fast taxi awaits. As he goes, he catches a glimpse of one of Kabu’s wind chimes at the corner of his eye and stops, remembering the one he’d bought in Turffield, still neatly packaged and sitting at the bottom of his pack. He’d forgotten all about it, too drunk on soju and riding the good mood of yesterday.

Setting his bag down, he takes out the package and carefully unwraps it. The metal gleams in the sun, and he runs the pad of his thumb over the wood surface of the base. Carefully, he reaches up and attaches it to one of the hooks lining the edge of the porch roof, where a potted plant hangs and serenely sways in the breeze. He’d wanted to give it to the man personally, but his taxi is waiting and there’s just no time to do a second round of goodbyes.

Raihan runs his fingers through the metal bars, grinning as they clink together; it’s a cute little thing, perfect for Kabu’s cozy, sweet home. Sometimes, his impulses are good ones, he thinks.

He picks his bag back up again and jogs down the street, ready to see Hammerlocke again.


	11. bright

As they all expected, League traffic picks up astronomically after the lull. Raihan is so busy with training his kids and battling the new wave of hopefuls that he doesn’t have much time to dwell on things. In the months following the re-opening of the gyms, he doesn’t see much of Leon, who is far too busy with his campaign, and he doesn’t even catch a glimpse of the new Champion.

By the time he and Leon make time to see each other, it’s been months since the official announcement of Leon’s bid for the Chairman seat. Seeing him feels off, now that Leon isn’t bogged down by the same grueling workload that all the Leaders have. He looks fresh-faced and energetic, and Raihan jokes that the sight of his face makes him feel like a grouchy old man.

“Don’t count me out yet,” Leon laughs. “I’m on the administrative side now. It’s _wild_.”

Catching up with him is a boon, a wonderful reprieve from his hectic schedule. This new batch of trainers chasing the top are a force to be reckoned with, and the Raihan’s late nights are marked by sore muscles and a pitiful amount of sleep. Every gym leader has found themselves with a procession of challengers out the door, hundreds of hopefuls spurred by the desire to shoot their shot. It’s a rough season for everyone in the challenge.

Raihan hopes the new Champion can hold her ground, because they’re coming for her with everything they’ve got.

When the topic of her comes up, Leon’s voice quiets, serious like it rarely is:

“You know something? I think was relieved when she beat me.”

Raihan’s flat tends to be poorly stocked when his housekeeper doesn’t remind him to go shopping, but Leon makes himself at home on his couch anyway, clutching a cup of instant coffee in his hand. He’s dressed down, wearing a pair of old, worn-out League-branded sweatpants from three seasons ago and a t-shirt he’s slightly too muscled for. He looks good, relaxed; he looks like someone at a crossroads, someone thinking about what to do next.

Stirring milk into his coffee, Raihan hums. He says, “Don’t lie, I saw your face. You had the wibbly lip and everything.”

“Just for a second!” Leon laughs. It’s a big and bright sound, not at all changed.

Raihan has missed this, missed _him_.

Tonight’s the first night he’s had off in a while, and Leon had taken the chance to pop by and talk.

“ _We’re still friends, right? Don’t tell me the League was the only thing keeping us together_ ,” Leon had quipped.

“ _Not on your life. You’re stuck with me._ ”

He eyes the easy slope of Leon’s shoulders, bare of his cape. He wonders where they’ll go from here, without Raihan dogging his heels for the title like he has been doing for so many years.

Next week, Leon plans to hold a fundraiser event in Wyndon. The whole thing is part of his campaign, in an effort to solidify his network and supporters for his rise to Chairman, a reality that continues to make Raihan’s head spin with the sheer absurdity of it every time he remembers.

“Tell me something,” he says, carefully watching Leon’s face.

“Yeah?”

“Think you can do it?” Raihan leans forward, setting his coffee on the table. “Really, _really_ do it? Go higher than Rose, and make everything all good and better for the next generation like you keep saying?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so combative about it, but he has to know. He has to hear it from Leon’s mouth.

Leon grins, and that spark – that bright, consuming passion that’s been there for as long as Raihan can remember, the same one that won him the Championship and made him a _legend_ – is still there, stronger than ever. For a moment, Raihan holds his breath and forgets everything, every doubt he's had, as Leon says:

“Just watch me.”

*

The sight of Leon in a suit is strange and disorienting. It’s as though someone put the wrong head on the wrong body, and Raihan feels himself squinting with comical intensity as he watches Leon take the stage. A small hand swats him on the side, nearly making him spill his gin and tonic, and Sonia’s irate face pops into view.

“Don’t be such a prat,” she whispers. She’s left the lab coat at home today, and he compliments her on her choice of pastel power suit.

“That suit is awful. I’m going to give him my stylist’s number so he’s not showing up in last season’s cut and untailored clothes,” he whispers back, aghast.

“I didn’t even notice.”

“Well, of course _you_ wouldn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“N-nothing.”

Leon makes his speech – an earnest, passionate flow of words straight from the heart. The overhead lights make a violet halo of his hair, which has been swept back for the occasion, and he looks – and even Raihan could admit – like a beacon of possibilities. He still doesn’t know how Leon is planning to pull any of this off, but watching him now, he feels himself getting swept up in it anyway.

Leon is where he wants to be. Leon is looking ahead and forging a wholly new and unpredictable path. He might not be Champion anymore, but he hasn’t changed one bit, and deep inside of himself, Raihan feels a burst of pride warming his chest.

The speech winds down, and Raihan joins the crowd in applause. Beside him, Sonia sniffs and starts wiping her eyes with a napkin.

“There, there,” he says, patting her on the shoulder. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“He was so _dumb_ ,” she says, nearly wailing. “God, growing up all I could do was make sure he d-didn’t eat glue or get hit by a car because his head was always in the clouds. But look at him now…he’s going to change the world.”

Awkwardly, he holds her as she tears up into his suit jacket, rubbing circles into her back. They stay like that for some time, Raihan watching Leon over her shoulder. He poses for photographs on stage and calls up significant members of the League to credit their contributions. He looks, Raihan thinks, indescribably mature. What had that happened? 

Eventually, Sonia leaves to get herself a drink and Raihan finds himself scanning the room for a certain figure, the only other person he's interested in seeing right now. Scanning the sea of heads and expensive suits and gowns, he finds him at the far side of the room, short and silver-headed, clad in the same grey suit that Raihan had bought for him months ago. The strong, steady line of his shoulders makes Raihan breathe a sigh of relief – or comfort, perhaps. He’s walking toward him before he even realizes it.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Raihan says, sidling up next to him.

Kabu has a flute of half-finished champagne clutched between his fingers, and the two of them clink glasses in lieu of greeting.

“I’m interested to see what Leon would bring to the League,” says Kabu, shrugging. “It only makes sense that the Chairman be someone who’s been on the ground, so to speak.”

“What, you’re not rooting for another suit to take the spot? Some greasy business school type?”

Kabu snorts. “I never liked Rose.”

Raihan grins. “You’d be one the of few who didn’t, then.”

Most of them did, and the pervasive sense of shame and embarrassment that followed Rose showing his true face still lingers in the air, these days. No one wants to admit how much they bought into him and everything he promised. It’s going to be a stain on the reputation of Galar’s League for a long, long time.

“Thank you for the wind chimes, by the way,” says Kabu, flashing him a smile and deftly changing the subject. “Very charming.”

Raihan shrugs and says, “Thought of you when I saw it.”

“I’ve moved it to my balcony, outside the bedroom,” says Kabu. “Centiskorch likes to sleep under it.”

Raihan sighs dramatically, and waggles his eyebrows. “Ah, your _bedroom_. Good times, good times.”

Kabu huffs a laugh, shaking his head.

They watch as Leon’s assistants set up the stage for the Q & A, and the line up of financiers excited to put Leon’s ambitions and passion to the test. Leon looks ready to take them all on and come out on top.

“He looks happy,” remarks Kabu.

“Yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

Raihan likes Kabu, enjoys his company. Most of all, he appreciates the man’s tone and way of speaking – gentle and wise, rarely patronizing. He wonders if it’s the years of experience that make a person that way, or if it was a quality Kabu has always had. It’s like dipping into a wellspring if tranquility, and odd thing to associate with the ever-burning man of fire.

“I feel good,” he says. The honesty of it is freeing – not too long ago, it would have been a lie. “I want to see where he goes.”

Kabu nods, bringing the glass to his lips. “And where you go, as well.”

Laughing, Raihan nods along. “Yeah, that too.”

He watches Kabu’s throat bob as he drinks, lets himself be pulled briefly into memories of his week in Motostoke. He can smell Kabu’s cologne, from here.

 _It’s a party, isn’t it_?

He looks around the room before sliding in close to lean down and whisper into Kabu’s ear: “You know, there’s a loo down the hall…and I’m pretty sure it locks.”

Kabu blinks. Slowly, he cranes his head up to look Raihan straight in the eye, his brow raised and his mouth quirking into a small, private smile. With deliberate care, he places his flute of champagne onto the table and pulls away, turning on his heel and heading toward the hall, hands in his pockets, pace slow and easy.

Giddy, Raihan downs the rest of his drink in one go and takes off after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [【授翻】【KBKB】前程似锦](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344904) by [Amairingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amairingo/pseuds/Amairingo)




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